


How Do You Do?

by SadieDonovan747



Category: The Beatles
Genre: M/M, Slightly Non-Con Situation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-07
Updated: 2016-05-30
Packaged: 2018-05-31 20:36:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 27,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6486556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SadieDonovan747/pseuds/SadieDonovan747
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's 1968 in the jungles of Rishikesh, India, where The Beatles and their friend, Donovan Leitch, are deep in the ruts of meditation and songwriting. Donovan and Paul McCartney hit it off immediately and become exceedingly close-- "too close" according to Paul's long-time love, John Lennon. Jealousy and passion overtake the Fab Four behind the scenes of one of the greatest Beatles albums ever recorded.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Blackbird - Intro

_Blackbird singing in the dead of night_

_Take these broken wings and learn to fly_

_All your life_

_You were only waiting for this moment to arise._

He couldn’t believe that The Beatles had invited him to India to mediate and write songs together. The two men, Paul and Donovan, were so exhausted that they simply had fooled and joked around, spouting nonsense into the microphones. Donovan smiled down at his feet, running his fingers up the neck of his acoustic guitar. Paul began playing the beginning of “Blackbird”. “That’s beautiful,” Donovan cooed to the older man, raising his gaze to meet Paul’s. Paul managed to shoot an electric gaze that shot from his doe eyes straight into Donovan’s heart.

Donovan ached to make Paul laugh, so he managed a small anecdote about a magpie. Paul forced a chuckle, thinking to himself how silly and precious the younger musician was. Paul returned to his guitar to continue trying to impress Donovan. Donovan shut his eyes, lost in Paul’s melody. He couldn’t believe just how much this one man could inspire him— even more so than Bob Dylan. He was a true genius.

The evening sun highlighted the silhouette of Macca’s face through the open window; the sultry look on his face as he plucked the guitar strings drove Donovan mad. He wished the room was less crowded so that he wouldn’t have to hide the bulge growing in his pants. His head whirled. John Lennon stopped the recording and glanced toward Donovan. “‘Ey Don, you’re not lookin’ so good. How about you go get some fresh air an’ light up.” 

Donovan was taken aback, but he simply nodded and stepped outside. He still felt like the little brother in the group. The Beatles were far more successful than he would ever be, but he was so inspired by the opportunity to study in India with men he looked up to. He perched beneath one of the low-hanging trees out back and watched the birds dance in the breeze, deciding to meditate. All at once, all his worries were at ease and he was at peace.

He became lost in time, and before he knew it, the sun had begun to set. A window above him was open, and he could hear the soft acoustic twang of a guitar deep within the room. “Paulie,” he whispered just as he spied Jenny approaching him. 

“Hey, Don,” she sighed, reaching out her hand and allowing Donovan to take it. She leaned in and placed a soft feathery kiss upon the man’s lips. “How are you feeling?”

“Oh, just fine,” he answered, “where is everyone?” 

“George and Pattie are meditating, John is speaking with Jane about some disagreement regarding Paul, and Paul is writing songs. How many songs have you written today, darling?”

“Just two.” Donovan flashed a nervous smile. Jenny pouted.

“That’s a shame. I suppose you’ll spend another night with Paul then, won’t you? You should write me a song,” She joked, pushing a golden lock out of her face.

“I’ll write you the most beautiful love song ever written, my darling,” Donovan whispered, burying his face into her soft hair and planting kisses up her neck. She tilted her head to the side just for a moment before pushing him in the direction of the house.

“Get to writing, Don. I’ll catch you later.”

...

Donovan knocked twice on the door and heard Paul’s gruff voice welcome him in. “What are you doing?” Donovan asked as he stepped into the room. The smell of marijuana was overwhelming.

“Writing songs,” Paul answered, shooting a sly grin at the younger man.

“Might I join you?” Donovan asked, sure that Paul would let him join. Sure enough, Paul nodded and the younger man sat cross-legged in front of him. 

“I’m actually stuck on this one bit; here, listen…” Paul began to sing the lines to his new song, “In the town, where I was born; lived a man who sailed to sea…” He moved through nearly the entire song before he stopped and stared at Donovan. “What do you think, Don? I don’t know what to do with this bit here…”

Donovan paused, stood up, walked into the hallway for a few moments before moving back into the room and singing, “sky of blue, and sea of green in our Yellow Submarine!” He sat back down next to Paul who was deep in thought.

Paul repeated the lyric with his guitar backing the melody. A huge grin passed across Paul’s face and he patted the younger man on the back, his hand lingering ever so slightly on his arm. “Thanks, Don. That’s perfect.”

“Anytime, Paulie,” Donovan answered. He instantly froze. He had never called Paul McCartney (THE Paul McCartney) “Paulie” to his face. He turned to face him, observing his reaction. Paul seemed at first surprised, but then he gazed at Donovan with such curiosity that Donovan couldn’t help himself anymore. He practically lunged at Paul. 

Taking his two cheeks between both of his hands, he pressed his lips to Paul’s. Paul’s lips were soft, full, and moist; it was all Donovan could do to prevent moaning into the kiss. Paul tensed up at first, but reacted hungrily pulling Donovan into a tight embrace, pulling the younger man on top of him. Donovan’s fingers tangled into the back of Paul’s dark hair. 

As soon as they paused for breath, they shot quick, hot glances at each other, Paul whispering, “So my name is Paulie to you now?” 

“Oh Paulie,” Donovan moaned, pulling Paul into round two. Just as Donovan’s hands had felt their way down to Paul’s pants, there was a knock at the door.

“Oh, Paulie!” John cooed from the other side of the door. “Jane and I have settled our differences, and she has decided to run away with me.” Paul stared up at Donovan, a wave of realization and panic sweeping over his face.

“Very funny, Johnny,” Paul shouted, pushing Donovan off of him. John eagerly opened the door, seeing his bandmate and their guest star red-faced and undoubtedly close. John shot a glare at Donovan and an accusing stare at Macca. Paul looked apologetic and guilty as he shifted away from Donovan and towards John. It was then Donovan realized that he had encroached on dangerous territory. 


	2. Rocky Sassoon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Paul needs advice on a new song, but John doesn't appreciate where Paul is seeking help.

_"Rocky burst in and grinning a grin_  
_He said, Danny boy this is a showdown_  
_But Daniel was hot he drew first and shot_  
_And Rocky collapsed in the corner"_

“Paul we should go write, don’t you think?” John urged, taking Paul by the arm and pulling him into a standing position. 

“That’s what we were already doing, Johnny,” Paul replied, taken aback by his bandmate’s forcefulness. 

“It’s so cramped in here,” John signed, eyeing Donovan, clearly implying Donovan’s presence was a nuisance. “Why don’t we head up to the roof? I have some ideas.”

“Yeah, all right,” Paul stated, following John as he turned to strut out the door. “Come along, Don.” 

John bristled. He gritted his teeth and continued walking to the top of George's bungalow. Paul and Donovan had gotten uncomfortably close during their trip to India; they had become fast friends upon his arriving. Paul and John had spent hours and hours alone and writing songs, but after each session, Paul would run off to Donovan’s room to spend the night “helping” Donovan with his songwriting. Paul had been instantly taken aback by Donovan’s lyrical proficiency and guitar picking style. John had also been intrigued by the style, but he had been too prideful to ask for a lesson. 

The three men retired to the roof and all sat cross-legged on the roof tiles. Each man pulled out a guitar and proceeded to fiddle with chords and lyrics. Paul glanced at both men and announced, “I think I’d like to work on “Rocky Sassoon” for a while. I’m just now polishing the tune, but after that’s finished, I’d love some help with lyrics, Don.” John gritted his teeth once more in jealousy that Paul was not asking him for help. 

Donovan felt the negative energy emanating from John, and shifted nervously. “Yeah, sure. John,” he turned to the older Beatle, “what are you working on.” John looked up from his guitar and frowned.

“Well if you must ask, I’m working on a song for my mother. I don’t need help with lyrics, though, if that’s what you’re getting at.” John continued strumming at his guitar, becoming exceedingly frustrated. Donovan shut his eyes and listened to the chords John was playing through. 

“Wait, John. What about this?” John ceased playing with an annoyed expression playing upon his face. His thin lips were screwed up in thought. Donovan played the same tune in his picking style, and John’s face softened before immediately hardening up once again. 

“How do you do that?” John hesitantly asked, holding his head high. 

Donovan hesitated, thinking of how to begin teaching his style to THE John Lennon. Donovan replayed the same melody, slowed down as John silently observed, taking in every movement. “I’ll teach you, but it will probably take a few days.” Donovan lowered his gaze before looking back up at John. 

“I’ve got _time_ , Don. We’re in the bloody jungle in the middle of India,” John impatiently answered, eager to pick up a new technique for one of the most vastly important songs he had been working on. 

“Well, first, you do this. Do this over and over again, and don’t do anything else.” Donovan played the first bit in his clawhammer picking style. John immediately began practicing over and over.

Paul eyed the two other men, an interested look on his face. “You know, I have “Blackbird” down pretty well, I think I need to incorporate that style of yours into some more songs, Don.” 

“Well, Paul,” Donovan chuckled, “It’s hardly my style the way you play it. I cannot get over how you learned it by ear. You play it differently than I do.” Paul smiled at Donovan, and John glared over his incessant practicing of the same chord progression over and over. 

“How many days did this take you?” John asked nonchalantly. 

“Oh, around three days,” Donovan answered.

“Give me two,” John replied. “Paul, how’s “Rocky Sassoon” coming around?” 

“Ah yes,” Paul snapped back to reality. “What do you think of this?” Paul played and sang the lyrics with which he had been fiddling. And so, the three men spent the entire night on the roof with John practicing clawhammer and Paul and Donovan working on several of their own songs. In the early morning, the horizon glowed red, and the monkeys renewed their incessant chattering before the three decided to head down to breakfast.

 

…

 

“Oh surprise, surprise! Cornflakes! What a joy!” John crowed, sitting at the long, communal table with the rest of the gang. Cynthia took her spot beside him, quietly. 

“Only the finest for Mr. Lennon,” Paul jested in return, taking a bow, and taking his seat beside his best mate.

“Cheeky bastard,” John chuckled, picking up his spoon to eat his bowl of cornflakes. He munched loudly, eyeing Donovan with as much poison as he could muster as the younger man took the spot across from Paul. Jane took the spot on the other side of Paul, giving him a quick peck on the lips before taking a large gulp from her coffee. 

_I didn't ask for all of this competition_ , John thought to himself, scowling slightly before brushing Paul’s leg with his fingertips. 

“Hey watch it, Johnny,” Paul whispered, half laughing as he brushed his hand away. 

“Did you get much work done last night, John?” Cynthia asked, turning to her husband and flashing a warm smile. 

“Not much,” John answered unenthusiastically. 

“Well, Cyn, Don and I got loads done,” Paul mused. “I worked on several numbers, and Don gave a guitar lesson and wrote a beautiful melody which he claims is for someone special.” He winked at Jenny, who turned immediately to Donovan.

“Oh, really?” She asked, nudging him. Donovan smiled shyly and nodded. 

“Whoever could that be?” John asked sarcastically. There was an awkward pause before George spoke up.

“Pattie and I made huge progress meditating yesterday.” He beamed.

“Yeah,” Pattie replied with a hesitant smile. “Did any of you feel a little more enlightened after the group meditation session yesterday?”

“I certainly did,” Donovan answered honestly. “Something about meditation just fits with me.” 

“Glad you’re feeling particularly cosmic and all that,” John answered, pushing forth another awkward pause. 

As soon as breakfast was over, Donovan ventured to John’s room and knocked on the door. “Come in,” John’s voice replied from the other side of the door. Donovan stepped in and instantly felt the strong negative vibes that began as he crossed the threshold. “Yes?”

“I just wanted to talk with you for a moment,” Donovan answered.

“I’m listening.”

“John, do you take any issue with me?” John paused, eyeing the man up and down. 

“Not at all, Don. I’m sorry if you get that impression.” Donovan nodded weakly. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to practice.” 

“Okay, thanks for talking with me, John. Glad we cleared things up.” Donovan exited the room, defeated, and headed down the stairs and into the courtyard to his usual spot in the garden. 

 

…

 

John crept down the hall with his guitar, careful not to draw attention to himself. He did not want to talk to anyone else— just Paul. He pressed his ear to Paul’s door and listened intently for about three minutes, listening to the faint conversation and faint giggling between Paul and Jane. He scowled and waited until he heard muffled footsteps approaching the door, and he ducked around the corner allowing Jane to exit.

As soon as she was out of earshot, he did not even knock before pushing into Paul’s room and shoving a mildly surprised Paul McCartney to the ground where he sat cross-legged. John crawled on top of his bandmate and pressed their lips together. Paul laughed and responded, wrapping his arms around John.

“Hold on a minute,” Paul gasped, laughing. John pulled up and sat on the floor across from Paul, annoyed with the interruption. He could hardly make eye contact with Macca. “You can’t just jump me like that, Johnny,” Paul whispered. “We’re not supposed to fool around on this trip.”

“Ah so you an’ Jane are the exception, are you?” John scoffed, pulling Paul into another bruising kiss before pulling away and looking Paul directly into his eyes. “You still love me, Paul?” John’s voice cracked and he scowled once again.

“John…” Paul gazed into John’s eyes and gave him a sweet peck on the lips. “What’s this about?”

“Nothing, y’know, a man’s got to have some reassurance now and again, don’t he?” John responded.

“I’ve seen this before.” Paul ran his fingers through John’s hair. “1963, to be exact. Are you jealous of _Jane_ again? We’ve talked about this, Johnny…”

“It’s not Jane, you git.”

“Well wh— Ohh. You don’t think that about _Don_ , do you?” Paul crinkled his nose. He pulled John into his chest, holding him. “You’re such a damn hypocrite, Johnny. Even if there was something there, there is no one in this world that means more to me than _you_. What about me, John? You have Cyn; you’re _married_. And about this Yoko woman…”

“Not so loud,” John pleaded. “I don’t know what’s happening, Paul, but I feel as if we’re drifting apart. I’m irritable, you’re irritable. I just…”

“John, you’re never like this. John… Where are we going?” Paul whispered.

“Paul…”

“Where are we going?” Paul asked again, forcefully.

“To the toppermost of the poppermost,” John replied. 

Paul kissed John again, and they embraced once more, their wandering hands feeling every inch. They climbed into Paul’s bed and slept as if it was 1960 again. They conversed and laughed, fingers entwined, nose to nose as they slept. Shortly before they drifted to sleep with their last ‘goodnight’s and ‘I love you’s, just outside the closed door, a secret visitor sat with his head in his hands propped up against the wall next to the door. Donovan stared at the dirt-covered floorboards and contemplated if the love he felt for Paul McCartney was warranted. 

 

...

 

Donovan gazed deep in thought at the dense green vegetation and monkeys chattering all around. He saw Paul’s face everywhere he turned and his head whirled. His mind was caught in an endless loop ofPaul’s voice serenading him with “Rocky Sassoon”.Donovan’s mind was at a horrible impasse. Was he misreading the signals Paul had been sending him these past weeks? And what about the kiss that they had shared? 

Donovan gazed deep within himself in meditation for the next couple hours until Jenny called him over for lunch. He made his way to the long table for the second time that day, but there was no more coffee and no more cornflakes— only the “health food” the party was continuously subjected to. Today, the plates were scantly laden with chickpeas and eggplant, much like dinner the previous night.

George stood on one of the benches, towering over the table, in a heated battle with a crow who desperately fought the man for scraps of the meal. Finally, the bird seemed to give up and George took a seat. John sat unbearably close to Paul, giggling about something that the other man had said, their knees probably touching underneath the table. Cynthia pushed John’s plate over to him, and he turned up his nose. “If I have to have this same shite one more night, I’ll probably go nuts,” John spat. 

“That’s not very nice, darling. It’s bland but it’s not horrible,” Cynthia said, helping herself to a considerable bite of eggplant.

“I rather enjoy this food,” Pattie exclaimed.

“You’re daft, you are,” John stated pointedly at Pattie. John barely looked up when Donovan took the seat opposite of Paul.

Paul looked up, and his heart fluttered, flashing a quick smile— a smile that John immediately noticed. “Hey, Don, can I ask for your opinion again?”

“I gave you my opinion, Paul, I think it’s a decent idea,” John replied quickly to Paul’s question to Donovan.

“Yes, John, but why not ask the folk king, himself?” Paul joked, winking at Donovan.

“Dylan isn’t here,” John replied flatly. Donovan’s cheeks burned, but he chuckled under his breath.

“Well there is a folk star here,” Paul replied, annoyed at John’s bitterness. “I’m not digging ‘Rocky Sassoon’ anymore; I’m thinking a better title would be ‘Rocky Raccoon’. It seems more _western_ , you know?”

“Yeah, I like that,” Donovan replied. “It’s very clever, and it fits.” Donovan really did like the idea. He watched Paul’s eyes light up with his approval, and something sparked inside of him. Paul broke the eye contact and turned back to John, but Donovan could still feel it. There was something there; he was sure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a lot more fun than I expected. I'm pretty much just writing this to get myself back into the writing spirit and relieve some of my stress. Also I hope you all like Lennon angst because there's plenty more to come. Hope you all enjoy. :)


	3. Julia, Across the Universe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys take a late night swim in the Ganges. Each ponders the world around them, Donovan marvels over the night sky, John becomes deep in thought about the creative processes of songwriting, and Paul mulls over the fate of the Fab Four after this Indian retreat.

_ "We'd go down to the river _  
_And into the river we'd dive_  
_Oh down to the river we'd ride"_

-Bruce Springsteen

Donovan had moved up to meditating an hour in the morning and an hour in the evening, chanting his mantra over and over, feeling more and more fulfilled. He no longer saw mountains as mountains, and as he gazed at the Ganges in the afternoon trips, he no longer saw the river as a river. Every word the Maharishi uttered was golden to the young man who was just discovering himself for the first time. He, George, Pattie, and John took great joy from the evening ninety minute lectures. 

Food seemed to have a more fulfilling taste, the vegetarian meals more bearable. The hot breeze of the hot Indian days seemed comforting; the sun beating down on Donovan’s bear shoulders as he ran up and down the riverbed with Paul and the others did not have the usual sting.

Donovan sat atop his bungalow late at night, listening to Paul writing song after song, acoustic guitar drifting into the night air of Rishikesh, India. He listened to John’s repeated practice of the clawhammer style. He realized that, unlike Paul, John was taking the time to learn it exactly the way he and Gypsy Dave played it. There was something endearing about that fact. 

After two days, sure enough, John surprisingly approached Donovan after one of the Maharishi’s lectures and before a group songwriting session. “Sit down, Don, and get a load of this.” John and Donovan sat in the chairs outside of the lecture hall, around the fire pit, and John began to play. “Julia, Julia…” John softly sang in almost a whisper. Donovan was bursting with emotion as he listened to the older Beatle play the music that had been lingering in his soul for so many years. 

John’s picking was masterful, and it surprised Donovan to some extent. Halfway through the song, Paul approached silently and stood behind John, listening to the lyrics. Paul seemed to be very moved by the song as well. “Ocean child… calls me,” John sang, a glazed look over his eyes as he seemed to be looking directly into the future.

After he had finished, Donovan complimented his work. “That’s impressive, John,” Donovan said, beaming at him. “The lyrics are well thought out as well; I love the ‘ocean child’ line. What does that bit mean?”

“Oh, just a bit of gibberish. Mostly about the future and what it holds, you know. All that stuff.” 

“Gibberish, huh?” Paul said, placing his hands on John’s shoulders. John tensed at Paul’s touch. Paul seemed skeptical. “I’m glad you actually took the time to learn it rather than just doing it any old way like I did, Johnny.” 

“Well I plan on using it to my advantage now and again, I think,” John replied, tilting his head back to look at his best mate. Paul gave him one of the most loving gazes Donovan had ever seen, and he shuddered. 

“You’re quite the old teach, Don.” Paul scrunched up his nose at Donovan. “I have an idea: let’s sneak off, break through this cage,” Paul pointed in all directions, referring to the fenced in compound, “and take a late night trip to the river.”

“Aye,” John announced, hopping up, and trudging in the direction of the Ganges. 

“We’ll get in trouble, won’t we, Paul?” Donovan chuckled. 

Paul gazed in the direction of John who didn’t turn to make sure the other two were following. Paul looked back at Donovan, gave him an encouraging smile, and took his hand. Adrenaline coursed through Donovan’s veins at Macca’s touch, and he eagerly and mindlessly followed. The two hurried to catch up to John before Paul let loose of Donovan’s hand, and John glanced over.

Donovan watched in dismay as John and Paul walked side by side, bumped into each other occasionally, and John inconspicuously slipped his pinky around Paul’s. The three men scaled the chain link fence and dropped to the other side, slowly making their way down the banks of the Ganges. “We’re out!” John cried jokingly.

The two other men chuckled and soon they were at the river. John was the first to strip down naked and wade into the waters. The Beatles and Donovan had been warned up on arrival that it may be unsafe for Westerners to swim in The Ganges, but due to its holy qualities, John Lennon was not afraid of the murky waters. Donovan stripped next, splashing into the water next to John, and Paul remained on the bank glancing skeptically at the water.

“I know I’m becoming more cosmically conscious and all that, but this water is…” Paul turned his nose up. 

“You bloody chicken,” John crowed, splashing Paul. 

“Hey now, Johnny, don’t disrespect the river, you git,” Paul scolded before rolling his eyes and stripping down as well, the sight of his lover and his crush covered by nothing but the water of the Ganges. He waded precariously in.

“That’s more like it, Macca,” John laughed, jumping on his friend and dunking him under, laughing all the while.

“You fucking asshole.” Paul gasped for air, wiping his face with his hands and sputtering. 

“Dirty, dirty boy,” John joked before Paul attacked him and dunked him as well.

Donovan laughed and splashed the two of them. Paul and John looked at each other with a maniacal grin and started to make their way over to Donovan who began frantically swimming away from the two. Paul caught one of his legs and held him as John pounced on him. “This physical contact is unwarranted,” Donovan cried before he was shoved under.

“We’re all going to get fucking sick, lads,” John proudly announced. “Religiously sick! Enlightened by the bacteria of the river!” 

Paul and Donovan doubled over in laughter before Paul started to sing a silly song about a river and a man who died from pneumonia. John and Donovan provided harmonies and the three kicked on their backs a ways down the river, staring at the star-dusted sky. 

“I have never in my life seen the sky in this way before,” Donovan whispered as they floated. 

“Cities, spotlights, the madness of a seaside port town,” Paul said, swimming closer to Donovan.

“I mean, I’ve seen a starry sky like this. I grew up in Scotland. But it’s so different now with what I’ve learned. Everyone should experience this.”

“Have you ever looked at a starry sky on acid, Don,” Paul joked.

“That’s a different experience within itself,” Donovan stated. “One of the most beautiful sights to see- breathtaking and clear. Life-changing. But this is filled with so much meaning.” 

John listened intently to the conversation and reflected upon Donovan’s words. They presented themselves with so much truth in that moment. He felt so inspired. He would hold this moment forever. The words of a song that he had written a few months ago entered his brain, _Pools of sorrow, waves of joy,_ and he added, singing aloud, a new verse on the spot, “Words are flowing out like endless rain into a paper cup; they slither wildly as they slip away across the universe…” 

Paul and Donovan were silent for a few moments afterwards. “I could not have phrased it better myself, John,” Paul whispered. John was teleported back to the night that the original lyric entered his brain after a fight with Cynthia. They had bothered him so much that he was forced to write them down. Now these new words plagued his brain, and he had been forced to voice them. John marveled at the creative process that was gifted to him. 

“I have to use the bathroom,” Donovan announced, sitting up, and wading over to the bank.

“Just go in the river, for Christ’s sake,” John called.

“It’s the Ganges,” Donovan shouted back, slightly appalled. He climbed the bank and disappeared into the underbrush.

“You know,” Paul randomly whispered, “I saw in a book one time that my name meant ‘humble’. Instead of ‘ocean child’ you could use ‘humble one’.” Paul suggested, gazing at John in the blanket of darkness broken only by the moon.

“Paulie, I told you it’s just gibberish, and it fits well.”

“John, you mentioned on the flight over that ‘Yoko’ means ‘ocean child’ in Japanese,” Paul gazed at the ripples in the water, mulling over his statement.

John was silent for a moment, caught in his lie. In an attempt to save himself he said, “Now who’s the jealous one, huh? Don’t you worry your pretty little head.” Paul turned his head.

John waded over to Paul, embracing him tightly, wrapping his legs around the man’s torso, and lip-locking him. The wetness of their lips made them slippery as John slipped his tongue ever so slightly into Paul’s parted lips. Paul moaned, “Johnny…” They broke apart for a moment, Paul still holding onto John tightly.

“Maybe Krishna will bless our love for all eternity.” Paul laughed slightly before realizing the serious expression on John’s face. Paul leaned in and kissed John passionately, feeling the growing erection against his bare stomach. John bucked his hips slightly, the water rushing away from their torsos as they lightly smacked together. Paul gasped, and tangled his fingers into John’s long, wet hair. Paul’s mind raced back through the years and forward again back to the current moment. This relationship had blossomed into a love so strong that Paul could hardly believe it. John was his soulmate, but he couldn’t help feeling detached. Especially after Brian’s recent death. Both he and John were terrified about the fate of the Fab Four. George was caught within himself and beginning a strict obsession with transcendental mediation, John was irritable and his mood swings volatile as a spring thunderstorm, Ringo was skeptical and concerned about all three of the others, and Paul himself was trying to take a leadership role to attempt to fill the void that Brian left. He knew this struck a nerve in John as well. This divide between him and John was toxic, and Paul couldn’t deny the budding feelings he felt with Donovan. Paul knew that after this short getaway, there may not be any ‘Beatles’ to come home to. Perhaps, if that were the case, he could work with Donovan for a few years. Paul hoped it would not come to that.

Before long, they heard rustling in the tree line and broke apart, in a loving daze. Paul leaned over and whispered, “I love you, Johnny, and there’s no place I’d rather be on a night like this. I trust you. We’ll get through this.” He squeezed John’s hand beneath the water level. Donovan hopped back into the water, and the three men swam lazily back to the area near the compound.

They each put their clothes back on, and marched through the jungle back to the fence. The three didn’t think much of it when they walked past the lecture hall and fire pit to see a stern-looking George Harrison. “Having a fun time, are you?” George asked with poison on his breath.

“We just stepped away for a moment, George,” Paul stated, stopping and turning to the third Beatle. 

“Just as a reminder, we’re not here to fuck around,” George stated plainly, frowning at the other three. 

“Oh sorry that we missed your coronation, King George. I suppose it’s off with our heads?” John spat in George’s direction. 

“Oh yeah?” George raised his eyebrows.

John stepped toward the youngest Beatle, bringing his face inches from George’s. “You know damn well that I take this just as seriously as you do. Just as a reminder, you don’t try to fucking control me.” 

George stepped back slightly. “Now, lads, we’re all a little edgy. We’re tired and irritated, all of us. But we’re still best mates. I know I can’t sit here day in and day out and meditate. George, we all respect this journey.” He stepped toward the other two. 

John frowned and suddenly hugged George, George reciprocating. “I just don’t think it’s respectful.”

“I know how much it means to you, Georgie. We’re all doing our best. But we have to take a break. It’s new to us,” John stated. 

“Yeah we’re sorry, George,” Donovan added.

George nodded. “I understand.”

“We were just about to go meditate and go to bed anyway,” Donovan stated. The other two nodded and made their way to their respective bungalows. George headed to his as well to meditate with Pattie. 

Meanwhile, lazy purple clouds rolled across the sky, causing the stars to flicker. Donovan gazed out his window, and once again, felt at peace. He dreamed of their Ganges adventure that night, smiling in his sleep, but slightly bothered by the relationship between John and Paul that he continuously witnessed. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter originally began with the lyrics of "Julia", but as I was writing it, Bruce Springsteen's "The River" came on shuffle on the downstairs music computer's iTunes, and I reconsidered. Enjoy.


	4. Cosmically Conscious

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Donovan solidify a friendship through songwriting and fairytales before everything begins crashing in. Paul and John profess their love once again between two bungalows.

_ Come and be cosmically conscious, _   
_Cosmically conscious with me._   
_Come and be cosmically conscious,_   
_Cosmically conscious with me._

The next day, Paul, Donovan, and John set about their usual routine, a little more thoroughly as not to offend George again. Of course, however, despite George’s protests, the three could not keep themselves from writing music. 

The Maharishi’s lecture that morning featured more river analogies than usual, and each time the word was brought up, all three men would exchange glances and small smiles. Each men’s mind whirred and contemplated how to use the river imagery in their own songs.

One new development from the previous night’s adventure was the friendship that had been ignited between John and Donovan. Though Donovan’s constant sticking around like a kid brother was at times annoying, John appreciated Donovan’s musical input and style, and John was certainly interested in adopting much of it in his own music. 

John also no longer worried about Donovan’s infringing upon John and Paul’s relationship. After the night with Paul, John was sure that he had won the war. John was terrified of rejection and tended to require tons of reassurance from Paul, but Paul always readily brought the reassurance John needed. 

After the ninety minute session with the Maharishi that morning, Paul, John, and Donovan stole away to the bonfire to write. Paul jabbered on and on about the lecture which had greatly interested him. “John, what do you think it means to be cosmically conscious?” Paul asked. “I’m sure there are tons of rubbish answers to that question, but I wish I had the answers. It would be gear to be conscious of the entire universe at once.”

“You’re getting deep, aren’t ya, Macca?” John chuckled. “I think deep down, we are all cosmically conscious. We just have to sit there and listen once and a while and quit gabbing on and on about every little thing.”

For approximately an hour a half, the three men sat listening to the sounds of outdoor wildlife. The crows cried from the treetops and the monkeys chattered. Everything was as serene as the first day the three had arrived in Rishikesh. Paul suddenly picked up his guitar and began to play various chords and humming, as always. “Come and be cosmically conscious… cosmically conscious with me,” he began to sing. “Such a joy joy…” John leaned back in his chair and listened with eyes closed to Paul’s song. At the end of the highly repetitive song, Paul shifted the song and began to sing a different tune, “Take the down to the river…” After he finished, he glanced at John hopefully. “A contender for the new record, yeah?”

John chuckled again. “No offense, Paul, but it’s a pretty rough track. I’m not going to say it’s rubbish, but work on it.”

“You’re daft,” Paul stated, but didn’t argue. He simply shrugged and sat in thought for a few moments. “I’m going to go spend some time with Jane. I’ve only seen her at meals and lectures for the past few days. She’s bound to leave me.” And with that, he strutted off with his guitar toward his bungalow where Jane was meditating. 

“You’re brutal, John,” Donovan said, strumming his guitar mindlessly.

“You’ve got to lay it on thick when you’re in a songwriting team like ours. We can’t just release any tune we write up willy-nilly. We’ve got to think about the message, the reception. If it don’t sit right with the both of us, it doesn’t make it to the album. It’s a mutual understanding,” John explained. Donovan nodded in understanding. The sun had climbed higher and higher in the sky during their time around the fire. “I can’t handle this full sun anymore. Let’s move into the shade.” 

John and Donovan picked up their guitars and moved a ways into the jungle to a large platform. “I’ve been thinking about these lyrics all day,” Donovan mused, staring down at his guitar, wondering where to start.

“We’ll let’s hear them, then,” John stated, waiting patiently for Donovan to begin to play.

“Lord of the Reedy River… She fell in love with a swan; her eyes were filled with feathers; he filled her with song…” Donovan sang quietly, thinking over every lyric after singing them. John seemed genuinely interested in the lyric and nodded his head after every verse. 

“Swans, fairytales, you’re a child at heart aren’t you, Don. Paul writes that kind of sugary shite, too. But I like the style and the lyrics. I’ve been meaning to write a song like that.”

Unfazed by the double-edged compliment, Donovan laughed. “I’m enchanted by fairytales and myth— especially Scottish myth. All of the Eastern myths are captivating me as well. Fairytales inspire me like no other if we’re being honest.” 

“Well, I saw this advert weeks ago that said, ‘Cry baby cry; make your mother buy’, and it caught me. Reminded me of that children’s taunt, you know the one, ‘cry baby cry, stick a finger in your eye…” Donovan finished the phrase, and John nodded with a laugh, “Yeah, that’s the one. I was thinking about turning it into a fun kind of song about Kings and nonsense.”

“That’s a fascinating take on that advert,” Donovan said. 

For the next few hours, John worked on the lyrics of “Cry Baby, Cry” with Donovan supplying input here and there as he worked on his own song “Lord of the Reedy River”. 

“I used to visit Kirkcaldy, Scotland, as a boy,” John recalled as he revealed the Duchess of Kirkcaldy as his new made-up character in the song. 

“I’ve been there a few times myself,” Donovan said, smiling at John. “I really like the characters you’re inventing, John. Very clever.” To Donovan’s surprise, John draped an arm around Donovan’s shoulder. 

“You’re all right, Donny-boy. Donny and Johnny. The Beatles could get use to havin’ you ‘round. Maybe you could make a cameo on our next record.”

Donovan blushed furiously. He couldn’t believe his ears; a few days ago John wouldn’t even talk to him. “Of course, John, if you need me, I’ll be there with bells on.”

“Splendid!” John cried with some silly fake accent. He gazed up at the position of the sun. “The Maharishi’s lecture should be soon, so we should head back. Great session, Don.” John stood, Donovan following him. They headed into the lecture hall together, and Donovan sat on the cushion next to Jenny. Again, to Donovan’s surprise, John took a seat next to him with a friendly smile. Paul, sitting next to Jane on the other side of John, eyed the two nervously, but thought little of it. He was content that John and Donovan had begun to get along. 

Upon exiting the lecture hall, John nudged Paul. “Don’t you think Donovan should make an appearance in our little studio for the next record?”

“What?” Paul laughed, looking around to see if anyone was around. “You’re serious?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” John said defensively.

“A couple days ago you were ready to kill the poor man.”

“Can a man have a change of heart?” John asked, scowling at Paul. 

“Suit yourself, Johnny. I’d love to have him on board.”

John cringed at the mention of the word ‘love’. “Well not for the whole bloody record, just for a few songs, you know. He’s not a Beatle.” 

“Hey now, don't get in a tizzy. The way you’re starting to buddy up to him, I wouldn’t rule it out.” Paul laughed.

The two men slipped through the shadowy gap between two bungalows belonging to Nancy and the Farrows. John suddenly pushed Paul up against the wall. “Let’s change the subject, then…” John kissed Paul, and trailed hot kisses down his neck and chest, moving down to Paul’s white trousers. 

“John…” came Paul’s surprised gasp. John tugged at Paul’s pants but was met with resistance from Paul. Paul clung to the fabric, not allowing John entrance. “John we can’t…”

John traced the outline of Paul’s growing erection through his pants with a finger, and gazed up at Paul. “Come on, Paulie; let Johnny in… Don’t you want me?” The pleading look on John’s face only served to arouse Paul even more and he gave in, looking around them, alert to every surrounding noise. He loosened his grip on his trousers.

John wasted no time in yanking them down, and his mouth watered as he took ahold of Paul’s erection and proceeded to lick it from the base to the tip, making a satisfied grunt before sliding his length entirely into his mouth. Paul whined, his knees buckling slightly underneath him. He grasped the side of the bungalow. He hadn’t had sexual contact like this since arriving in India nearly a month earlier. 

John bobbed rhythmically as Paul became less and less aware of his surroundings. His head swam with primal need. “Please,” Paul gasped, bucking his hips. John pinned Paul against the wall with his free hand, and slowed to a stop. He pulled Paul’s dick out of his mouth whispering quietly, his hot breath hitting Paul’s erection causing him to whine again. “Johnny please.” 

“How much do you want it, McCartney?” John asked, becoming more and more aware of the erection he was currently sporting. 

“Please, John,” Paul repeated over and over, overcome by his lust and his need for release. John smirked at his best mate’s sitting in the palm of his hand. John began again, faster this time. Paul leaned hard against the bungalow, throwing his head back and closing his eyes as he came quickly into John’s mouth, with an orgasm so intense that his head spun. John swallowed, and wiped away the drool that trickled down his chin. 

John stood and kissed Paul, forcing the other Beatle to taste himself. Paul didn’t have time to react before John shoved him to his knees and swapped places. “Your turn, Macca,” John whispered excitedly, yanking down his own trousers as Paul pulled his up.

Paul gave quick, tired, and sloppy head to John. John knew he was better at this than Paul, but he enjoyed the hastiness of Paul’s style, the wetness and the sloppiness of it. Paul’s lips were soft and plump as they slid their way up and down John’s length. John’s raspy pants filled the small alleyway. He tugged at Paul’s hair and dug his untrimmed nails into the side of Nancy’s bungalow. Paul looked up at John with his doe eyes in his submissive position which was enough to send John over the threshold of pleasure. He came hard into Paul’s mouth, taking the younger Beatle by surprise as he seemed to gag slightly before swallowing and sitting back on the ground in exhaustion. 

John pulled up his trousers and slid down the wall of the bungalow, gasping for breath. He took Paul’s hand in silence and sat that way for a while before chuckling. “This has been a good trip and a jolly good day.” 

Paul nodded, still breathless and aware that they had just broken one of the main rules of the trip. Finally John regained composure and lost some of the redness in his cheeks, so he pulled Paul to a standing position and walked with him, fingers locked, to his bungalow to meditate. “Don’t you feel guilty, John?” Paul asked.

“No, I already asked Krishna to bless our love, didn’t I? The Maharishi has lectured about love before. There’s nothing wrong with it as far as I’m concerned.”

“Fair enough,” Paul replied, still feeling slightly guilty about their tryst. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's this week's installment. Not a long one, but I hope it's good.


	5. Jennifer Juniper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally realizing that Paul is probably out of his grasp, Donovan confesses his feelings for Jenny Boyd. The ending of this intimate night becomes a great surprise to Donovan.

_"Jennifer Juniper, hair of golden flax_   
_Jennifer Juniper, longs for what she lacks_   
_Do you like her? Yes, I do, sir_   
_Would you love her? Yes, I would, sir_   
_Whatcha doing, Jennifer, my love?"_

“Jennifer…” Donovan sighed, running the name backwards and forwards through his mind over and over. He thought of her golden hair and her deep blue eyes -- a light shade of blue that reminded Donovan of juniper berries. He thought of the softness of her kiss. Anything to drown out the vision of Paul McCartney was enough for Donovan, but Jenny Boyd was one of the most beautiful women Donovan had ever encountered. They had spent several nights together talking and kissing each other, but nothing more. The connection he felt with her was unprecedented. He racked his brain to find the words to describe how he felt.

“Jennifer… Juniper. Hair of golden flax,” Donovan sang in a fun, upbeat tune. He attempted to seem as lighthearted as her affections made him feel each time they were together. He strummed the guitar for a while before the next lines came to him. “Jennifer, Juniper, longs for what she lacks.” It was a start. Donovan leaned back in his chair and thought back to a moment the previous week when he and Jenny had spent time alone on a small hill next to the river.

She had fallen asleep with her head laying in Donovan’s lap. “Jennifer, Juniper… lives upon a hill.” The Ganges flowed and glittered in the distance and the afternoon sun shone through the trees leaving shadow patters on her delicate face. Donovan had been mesmerized. She was like a doll, lively and also lifeless laying in his lap asleep. “Jennifer, Juniper… sitting very still. Is she sleeping? I don’t think so. Is she breathing? Yes very low. Whatcha doing, Jennifer, my love?”

Donovan then thought back to a dream he had about her two nights ago. The two of them rode through the Scottish lowlands on two horses, the wind teasing their hair as they trotted along. She had flowers in her hair and was donning a long colorful sari. She was more stunning and spectacular than any other woman. She called to him, and he dismounted his horse and hurried to her side. He had helped her down and she wrapped her arms around him. They laid a blanket upon the emerald green grass and made love. The sunset draped her naked body in a reddish gold light and Donovan was driven mad by the idea. He had suddenly been awoken by rowdy monkeys outside of his window.

“Jennifer, Juniper… rides a dappled mare. Jennifer, Juniper… lilacs in her hair,” Donovan sang next, shutting his eyes and smiling. This was his dream for the future. Paul and Donovan had talked about what they imagined their futures would look like, and Paul also imagined a lot of land and horses-- a beautiful maiden on horse. “Is she dreaming? Yes I think so. Is she pretty? Yes ever so… Whatcha doing Jennifer, my love?”

“I’m thinking of... what it would be like if she loved me…” Donovan sang, deciding to be entirely honest about his situation. “How just lately… this happy song, it came along, and I’d like to somehow try and tell you…” He paused and thought about how to continue the song. He decided to throw the line about her hair next.

“Do you like her? Yes I do, sir… Would you love her? Yes I would, sir; Whatcha doing Jennifer, my love.” A nervous energy coursed through his veins, and he became hyperaware of his fear of rejection. Donovan thought deeply about ways to woo women and realized that the French language is one of the most beautiful languages. He knew enough French to translate the first verse to close the song.

Donovan spent the rest of the afternoon practicing his new song and becoming more and more confident that she would fall for him the instant she heard it. As soon as he could play the song forwards and backwards in his sleep, he wandered off to Paul’s bungalow and knocked on the door.

“Come in,” Paul called.

Donovan pushed open the door and excitedly took a seat on the floor. “You busy, Paul?”

“I am now,” Paul laughed, taking a seat in front of Donovan. “What do you need, Don? Need some help with a song?”

“I need your opinion on a song. I took some inspiration from your ‘Michelle’, it seems.”

“I’m flattered!”

Donovan began playing his song, and Paul sat deep in thought the entire time. After he had finished he asked, “What do you think?”

“It’s beautiful,” Paul answered, his voice cracking a bit. He coughed. “So that’s how you feel about her, Don.”

Donovan hesitated for a moment, “Y-yes, I suppose. She’s one of the most beautiful girls I’ve ever seen. Must be how you feel about Jane.”

“Yeah,” Paul said quietly. He thought for a moment. Was Jane the most beautiful girl he had ever seen? Paul thought back to meeting a certain photographer nearly a year ago. She was stunning, so down to earth, so humble, so genuine. Her golden hair had entranced him. Linda was her name. She was one of the most beautiful women Paul had ever seen. Even her name meant ‘beautiful’. She certainly rivaled Jane. But that was a year ago, and he was sure she had long since forgotten him.

Donovan blushed slightly, his feelings for Paul nearly resurfacing. However, he maintained his composure and stood. “Do you think it will work?” Donovan inquired.

“Oh, I’m sure, Don! She doesn’t stand a chance with something like that. I envy you.”

“Thanks, Paulie,” Donovan whispered before quickly stepping out of the room. He hurried to Jenny’s bungalow. Leaning against the door frame, he knocked on the door. “Jenny?” He called.

“Coming!” the faint little voice cried from inside. Donovan’s heart skipped a beat. She poked her head out of the door and her eyes lit up when she realized it was Donovan. “Don!” she exclaimed, embracing him. “Come in!”

She pulled him inside, guitar and all. “I’ve finished your song,” Donovan stammered, laughing lightly, a goofy grin on his face.

“Oh, I’d love to hear it,” she replied, beaming at him. The two sat across from each other, and Donovan began to play his new song flawlessly. The father he got into his song, the more and more hazy her gaze became. She gazed at him lovingly with every word. When he began to sing in French, she gasped. “Don… I’ve never heard anything so beautiful in all my life. Is that really for me? Do I really deserve something like that?”

“Of course, my darling! You deserve that and so much more—“ Donovan was cut off when Jenny, overcome with emotion, embraced him, and they kissed once again. Donovan pushed her back onto the floor slowly, climbing on top of her as they kissed.

His tongue slid in and out of her sweet little mouth and she gasped and filled the room with light moans as his hands roamed around her body. “Donovan,” she moaned and her cheeks became a rosy red as his hands made their way under her multicolored skirt.

“Is this okay, darling,” Donovan whispered into her ear as he kissed and sucked lightly on her neck.

“Oh yes,” she gasped as he pushed one finger inside of her, shortly followed by a second finger. He gritted his teeth as he discovered just how wet she was. He felt her arch up beneath him as he made a beckoning motion with his pointer and index fingers. She cried out in pleasure as he moved faster, and he pressed his lips against hers to silence her. He continued fingering her for a few minutes before removing his fingers and pulling up her top.

Donovan kissed her chest and, moving to her breasts, rolled each of her nipples under his tongue for a few moments causing her to shudder and gasp. “Donovan, that makes me crazy,” she whispered.

She responded by pulling his shirt over his head and swiftly pulling down his trousers, revealing his readied erection. She eyed it hungrily as she slowly and seductively pulled down her skirt, showing Donovan everything. Donovan looked her up and down and grinned, slowly placing himself back on top of her and resuming the kiss. He positioned his dick and whispered in her ear, “Are you ready, Jennifer, my love?”

“Yes, I’m ready,” she whispered back, and Donovan wasted no time in pushing inside of her. He pushed in slowly, and she moaned loudly and squirmed beneath his weight. He rocked his hips slowly, panting at how much he desired her at that moment. “Yes, Don,” she cried out softly. “Yes!”

The minutes flew by as Donovan moved more and more quickly, the smacking of skin on skin contact growing louder and louder. Donovan could hear Jenny’s tailbone smacking painfully against the floorboards even through the rug they were laying on. Donovan’s knees stung from the carpet burn but he didn’t care. Finally, he felt her stiffen beneath him as she reached her climax, arching back and letting out a cry.

“Christ,” Donovan growled, desperately pulling out of her at the last minute and finishing all over her stomach. He collapsed on top of her, out of breath and panting, and he kissed her forehead before rolling over next to her. Donovan gathered the beautiful maiden he had just ravished into his arms and buried his nose into her slightly sweaty hair. Jenny sighed lightly, cuddling up to her lover.

“I could stay like this forever, Don. You’re so good at this.”

For several moments they were silent. Donovan gazed at her lovingly and finally he whispered to her, “Jenny…”

“Yes,” Jenny whispered back, smiling warmly, clearly pleased with what the two of them had just done in the fading aura of passion.

He hesitated for a moment. “I love you,” he whispered. “And I want to know if you feel the same.”

Jenny’s expression changed drastically. She slowly rolled over onto her bas and stared at the ceiling, suddenly uncomfortable. Donovan frowned. _It couldn’t be_. “Donovan…” Jenny began.

“Don’t tell me that didn’t mean anything to you - that I don’t mean anything to you,” Donovan said, shaking his head.

“No, it did; _you_ do,” Jenny hastily answered, “but…”

“But…” Donovan echoed. He felt his whole world crashing in with every impending word.

“I’m just not looking to be _committed_ just yet… you know? Don, you’ve got to understand: I’m busy; I’m young; I don’t have time to be tied down at this time in my life. I enjoy what we feel for each other, but I can’t commit to you. Love shouldn’t have a label”

Donovan mulled over her words for a few moments before closing his eyes and sighing. “I should have known better,” Donovan said. “I’m not the kind of man to take what we just did so casually.”

“Donovan, if I had known, I wouldn’t have allowed it to progress this far,” she confessed.

“I guess you must come into contact with men who are into that sort of thing,” Donovan said in dismay.

Clearly offended, Jenny stuttered a bit as she retorted, “What is that supposed to mean?” before she signed and said, “This is all my fault, but I don’t deserve that sort of treatment. I hope you don’t think I took advantage. I do have feelings for you.”

“I’m simply hurt, is all. I got my signals crossed. It was all for naught.” Donovan raked his fingers through his long, dark brown hair nervously.

“No, don’t say that,” Jenny pleaded. “You have a beautiful piece of music there; please use it! It wouldn’t be a complete waste. I’m sorry, Don.”

“I’ll see what I want to do with it. I think I’ll head out now for a bit of air.” And with that, he dressed slowly while Jenny watched guiltily. He stepped out into the hot Indian night air and closed the door to a very despondent Jenny Boyd. As the door closed behind him, Jenny’s eyes welled up with tears and she silently broke down, ashamed.

Donovan trudged three bungalows down to Paul’s place. He pressed his ear to the door, and heard a single guitar. He knocked. “Come in,” came Paul’s voice from the other side.

Paul frowned when he saw the defeated look on Donovan’s face. “I can’t tell if you’re tired or feeling low,” Paul observed. “Sit down, Don.”

“A little of both I guess,” Donovan replied. Paul moved to sit next to Donovan before Donovan broke down. Tears streaming down his face, Donovan’s voice got caught in his throat and he choked back a sob. He buried his face into the nape of Paul’s neck, and Paul nearly pulled back in surprise. However, he pulled Donovan closer and wrapped his arms around him.

“It’s all right, lad. Let it out, let it out, Don” Paul said quietly, comforting his friend. Donovan couldn’t tell Paul what happened, but Paul already knew. He sensed that Jenny was not a girl to be tied down, especially with what he had heard about Jenny and Mick Fleetwood.

“Paulie, I just don’t know what to do. I don’t know how I feel. I don’t know what’s happening to me. Everything is changing,” Donovan stuttered.

“Shhhh, Don, shhhh, I’m here.” Paul stroked Donovan’s hair and his face. He took both sides of his face into his hands and wiped his tears with his thumbs, kissing his forehead protectively. He pulled Donovan back into the embrace, Donovan clinging to Paul for dear life. The two men sat in Paul’s bungalow for the remainder of the night, Donovan attempting to regain some of his dignity that had been stolen that night.


	6. Dear Prudence & Bungalow Bill

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Donovan attempts to move past the unpleasantness of the previous night, but two disturbing events unfold in front of him. John saves the day twice, and Donovan begins to see John Lennon in an entirely different light.

_ Dear Prudence, won't you come out to play? _   
_Dear Prudence, greet the brand new day_   
_The sun is up, the sky is blue_   
_It's beautiful and so are you_

The events of the previous night stuck in Donovan’s brain like glue and repeated over and over incessantly. He sat outside in his usual spot, frantically meditating. Donovan knew that he tended to not be a forgiving person. That was certainly one of his flaws. He shut his eyes and focused all of his energy on his mantra. _I must forgive Jenny_ , he told himself over and over. He had to have meditated for five straight hours that morning.

All night he rested in the arms of Paul McCartney. The smell of patchouli hung from Donovan’s clothing from the incense that Macca had burning in his bungalow continuously. The two men had retired to Paul’s bed, and Donovan slept in his arms. Paul had his arms wrapped around Donovan from behind, spooning the younger man, keeping him safe from his worries. Donovan knew it had gone too far. He was hooked to his musical genius friend.

Within the fifth hour of his endless meditation session, he spotted a shadow of a man creeping up behind him. Thinking it was Paul, he pulled the man’s arms around him, “Hi,” Donovan purred.

“Hello, love,” he heard the man reply, and Donovan became instantly aware that it wasn’t Paul. 

He whirled around, “Oh, hello, John,” he said, surprised.

John stood behind Donovan, a strange look on his face. “Expecting someone else?” John asked.

“No, I don’t know who I was expecting, to be honest. I’m just in a really fine mood this morning from all of the meditating.”

“Yeah, the lads and I noticed that you’ve been particularly meditative this morning. You’re not the only one. When’s the last time you’ve seen Prudence?”

“Prudence?” Donovan repeated. He thought to himself for a few moments. “Oh, man, it’s had to have been at least three days, come to think of it.”

“Aye,” John answered. “She’s locked herself in her room. Gone nutty. She hasn’t eaten anything for three days, and she’s not answering. Mia is beside herself.”

“That’s rather concerning,” Donovan stated, slightly aghast at the idea. He stood up and turned toward John. “What are we going to do then?” Donovan asked.

“That’s what I came out here to ask you. We’re trying to figure out how to get that bird outside so that she isn't in any real danger. The girls are outside her room right now pleading with her.”

“Have you tried coaxing her out? She seems to fancy you quite a bit. You seem to be her favorite musician here.”

“Am I now?” John asked, wiping his eyes. He seemed extremely weary.

“From what I’ve observed,” Donovan answered as the two men started making their way toward the Farrow’s bungalows. “I didn’t know Prudence was so encompassed in this course.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard she took up meditation long before we arrived here. She’s determined to reach enlightenment before any of us, from what I can tell,” John scoffed. He didn’t like being outdone by anyone. 

John and Donovan met up with Paul between the Farrows’ bungalows. “There you are,” Paul cried, waving to the both of them as they approached. “Got any ideas, Johnny? …What about you Don?” Paul asked, looking at Donovan with a concerned expression.

Donovan put Paul’s mind at ease by giving him a contented smile. “Not really,” Donovan answered. “I suggested that John try to coax her out.”

“Don seems to think she fancies me,” John joked, giving Paul a wry grin. 

“Does she now?” Paul asked, nodding his head at John. “You know, even the Maharishi is concerned about this situation. Says it’s unhealthy for her to be doing this this way.”

“Anyone could figure that one out,” John stated, pushing through the girls crowded at Prudence’s door.

“What are you going to do, John?” Mia asked, her face white as the sari she had dressed herself in that morning.

John knocked loudly on Prudence’s door. “Dearest, Prudence. Won’t you come out to play with us?” John called jokingly.

“Go away, John,” Came a shaky, small voice from the other side of the door. This set the girls off in a tizzy realizing that the young girl was still alive.

“Prudence, you have to come out and eat!” Cynthia cried through the cracks in the door. “You’ll make yourself sick!”

“Get my guitar, Cyn,” John said, pushing Cynthia away from the bungalow gently. She hurried four bungalows down and disappeared inside for a minute or two before returning to John’s side with his acoustic guitar. “I’ve got an idea,” John whispered to the group. He began to play a couple chords and to sing loudly through the cracks in the doors. “Dear, Prudence, won’t you come out to play… Dear, Prudence, greet the brand new day! The sun is up! The sky is blue! It’s beautiful… and so are you, Dear, Prudence. Look around, around, around, around…” John couldn’t even reach the next verse before the door cracked open slightly.

Mia pushed the door open wildly, and all of the women filed inside, followed by the men. Prudence was ashen white and in a slightly catatonic state. She gazed at all of the people in the room, but recognized no one but two people. She took one look at Paul and John, moving her eyes back and forth between them in horror. The rest of the group looked at them as well, and the two of them just shrugged. 

Then Paul realized what must have made Prudence lock herself into her bungalow for days. Paul thought back to the other night and the tryst between John and himself. His cheeks burned hot, and he stared at the floor. John nudged Paul in the arm with his elbow, also realizing what must have caused her to meditate so feverishly.

“Let’s take you to the Maharishi,” Cynthia said, taking Prudence by the hand. Cynthia dragged the young girl through the dusty road to the lecture hall to visit the guru. 

“I can’t believe she’s been doing this for so long,” Donovan gasped. “She’s never hanging out with us after lectures; she’s always immediately stowing herself into her bungalow to meditate. I’ve only seen her eat, sleep, meditate, and go to lectures.”

“She needs to cut it out, in my opinion,” John scoffed. “She’s not going to find god faster than any of us.”

Before Donovan could stop himself, he made eye contact with Jenny who was slowly following behind Cynthia, Prudence, and Mia. He hadn’t noticed her at all in the commotion of the moment. He nodded to her before she turned away, and shook his head violently, placing a hand upon his forehead. Paul looked at Donovan understandingly.

“Well, lads, let’s go write for a couple hours before lecture,” John announced. Paul and Donovan didn’t argue. Donovan was done meditating for the day, after seeing what state Prudence was in. Perhaps meditating too much was an actual danger.

Donovan headed into his bungalow to grab his guitar and Paul turned to John. “John!” Paul said, holding his head.

“Don’t even say it, Macca. That wasn’t our fault.”

“We scared the bejeezus out of that poor girl,” Paul moaned, rubbing his eyes.

“No, that can’t have been it. She was going insane long before that. This could be a coincidence.”

“John, it was no coincidence, you saw the disgusted way she looked at the both of us. We can’t do that again.”

“Paul, don’t talk like that. You’re going looney.”

“Johnny, we scarred her for life. We’re a couple of right perverts to her now.”

“Perverts?” John asked, clearly offended by Paul’s choice of words. “Oh, so that’s what we are, now.”

“That’s what’s going through her head right now,” Paul answered, frowning at John.

“Just drop it, McCartney,” John snapped. 

“No I won’t, _Lennon_. Stop calling me by my last name. It annoys me, it does. It’s degrading.”

“Oh sorry to offend,” John chuckled. 

“I’m serious.” The conversation came to an abrupt end as Donovan slipped down the stairs of his bungalow, carrying his acoustic guitar. 

“Let’s be off then,” Donovan announced. Paul sighed hard as they made their way to the fire pit. “You know, John, I loved that little tune you just played. It’s in the clawhammer style, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, I’ve been working on it for a couple days, but those lyrics just came to me,” John replied.

“Very lovely.” Donovan smiled at John, who nervously smiled back, his mind still swimming with his previous conversation with Paul. 

As the three made their way to the fire pit, a young man approaches them with a strange grin and a pith hunting helmet on. “Do you all know where my dear old mum is by any chance? Nancy?”

“Yes,” John answered flatly, surprised by the towering man with a crew cut that stood before him. He was starkly different looking than any other occupant of the camp. “What do you need her for?”

The man laughed heartily. “I’ve got to talk with her. We had a run in with a wild animal, and I feel pretty remorseful. You know, karma and all that stuff.”

“A run in with a wild animal?” Donovan repeated, confused.

“Who are you anyway?” John asked. 

“Ah, where are my manners?” The man stammered, taking each of their hands and giving them firm shake. “My name is Richard Cooke III, but you can call me Rik. I’m Nancy’s son.”

“We’ll take you to her,” Paul said.

“That would be grand,” Rik answered, following the men to one of the bungalows on the farthest right. Nancy appeared in the doorway, looking extremely concerned. “‘Ello, mum,” Rik cried, approaching Nancy. She slunk back, eyeing her son.

“We’re a couple of killers, we are. I’d like to go and talk to the Maharishi,” She announced indignantly. 

“Well, that’s all right. Where can we find him?”

“We can take you to him, Nancy,” Paul said, surprised at the ‘killers’ remark. 

“You lot go ahead,” Donovan said, thinking about whether or not Jenny was still having a word with the Maharishi with Prudence. He wasn’t inclined to run into her again. “I’ll go and get a head start on writing. I’ll save you two a spot at the fire pit.” John and Paul nodded at him before proceeding to lead the mother/son team to the lecture hall.

Prudence and the other girls were long gone by the time they knocked on the Maharishi’s door. “Come in,” he called from behind the door.

The four piled into the small room, and the Maharishi raised his eyebrows at the strange man that had entered with the two Beatles and Nancy. 

“Maharishi, I am appalled at my son’s and my actions earlier today,” Nancy cried. 

“Calm yourself and tell me what happened,” The Maharishi said to her.

“Well, my son and I went out tiger hunting on this elephant, you see, with this Texan man. The next thing I knew I saw a flash of yellow and black and my son fired on the animal, shooting him right through the ear. At first we were both excited, but the Texan told us to keep quiet about the whole thing so that he could poach the tiger’s claws and things. I am so ashamed.”

The Maharishi stared in horror at the mother and son, a frown sitting upon his lips. John and Paul had never seen the Maharishi look so aghast in all of the time that they had known him.

“I feel extremely bad about this whole thing,” Rik spoke up. “I don’t think I’ll ever kill an animal again, to be honest with you.”

“You had the desire and now you no longer have the desire?” The Maharishi asked as calmly as he could. Rik nodded.

“Don’t you call that slightly life destructive?” John spat.

“It was either the tiger or us. The tiger was jumping right where we were!” Rik tried to explain. John shook his head in disbelief before exiting the Maharishi’s room. 

Paul followed after him. “John, he seems remorseful.”

“Remorseful? That’s not going to bring the tiger back. He’s such a big man, innit he? Killing an animal what done him no harm.”  
Paul couldn’t argue with that logic. They made their way to the fire pit where Donovan was waiting.

“So, how did it go?” Donovan asked.

“He was remorseful,” John said bitterly.

“Did you get anything written yet?” Paul asked Donovan, changing the subject.

“Not yet,” Donovan admitted. “But I think I may be onto something.”

“Well, I for one have a fantastic idea for a song,” John announced.

“Yeah?” Paul asked, looking at John curiously. 

“Yeah,” John answered. All that afternoon, John crafted the mocking lyrics to the song “Bungalow Bill”, and Paul and Donovan enjoyed listening to the instant karma John was hammering into Rik. 

“He’s going to get so much shit for this,” Donovan pointed out to John.

“Rightly so,” John answered triumphantly. “Hey, Bungalow Bill, what did you kill, Bungalow Bill?” John sang with a sly grin. “There’s no way this isn’t making it on our next record,” John said to Paul who nodded in agreement. Donovan admired John’s sense of morality. That was the first day Donovan truly saw John as the kind-hearted man he was. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A slightly uneventful chapter, but Saturday's update will be a doozy. Stay tuned. ;)


	7. Ob-la-di, Ob-la-da

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the eve of the Holi Festival, the Maharishi leads a trip to Rishikesh for the group to shop. Upon returning to the ashram, the Holika bonfire isn't the only "hot" event for Donovan and Paul.

_ "Ob-la-di ob-la-da life goes on bra _  
_La-la how the life goes on_  
_Ob-la-di ob-la-da life goes on bra_  
_La-la how the life goes on"_

As George, John, Paul, and Donovan rose the beautiful morning of Wednesday, March 13, 1968, none of them realized that it would be the most productive writing day the four would have the entire trip. The morning sun blazed through the greenery of the jungle, and they all rose happily. Donovan, Paul, and John had spent the night in Paul’s bungalow, writing music until the wee hours of the morning. None of them could have had more than three hours of sleep.

The Maharishi held an extra special lecture that day since it was the day before the Holi Festival— the festival of colors, the festival of sharing love.Paul had some wonderful lyrics running over and over through his brain during the entirety of the lecture, and he wrote them secretly on a scrap of paper, occasionally whispering the lyrics into John’s ear, who nodded with every whisper. The two men assumed the Maharishi wasn’t paying much attention to what the two of them were doing. 

“We are going to visit the town today to shop and have a fun time,” The Maharishi announced, followed by remarks of joy from the entire commune. Cynthia, Jane, Pattie, Mia, Prudence, and Jenny exchanged elated glances, whispering frantically to one another. 

John grinned and clapped Paul on the back. “Well, lads, it’s going to be a good, friendly day, I think!” He cried, hurrying outside with the rest of the group. The entire group filed over to the breakfast area to eat their cornflakes and coffee. 

When he took his place beside Paul at the table, he turned to him. “What was that song called that couldn’t wait until after the lecture, eh, Macca?” John asked. 

“I’m thinking of calling it ‘Teddy Boy’,” Paul answered. “It’s been bugging me all morning.”

“You always write the same kinds of songs, Macca. Boring people doing boring things.”

“Hey now, you’ll catch on,” Paul replied, slightly hurt by the biting words. “I’ll play it for the three of you when we’re back in the studio and we’ll see.”

“Sure,” John replied unenthusiastically. 

“Oh come on, John, give the poor man a chance,” Cynthia joked, turning a head to John.

“No one asked you, though, Cyn,” John replied shortly.

A pained look crept across her face, and she stared down at her cornflakes again. 

Paul frowned. “Now, John, I like Cynthia’s input now and again. She’s not daft.”

“My apologies,” John answered, none too apologetic. 

“Thank you, Paul,” Cynthia whispered. “You don’t have to be so aggressive with me, John; I was only joking,” Cynthia whispered into John’s ear.

“Yeah, yeah,” John agreed, patting her hand in her lap under the table. “I’m sorry, love,” John answered, the word ‘love’ lingering on his lips for a while; he was uncomfortable with the feeling of it. It felt unnatural. To think that only a year ago, he was still madly in love with his wife, and it only took a moment to change all of that. It only took one visit to an art exhibit. John felt incredible guilt over his feelings, and he knew he was being a coward about the entire situation. 

“George wrote a lovely little tune yesterday,” Pattie piped up to clear the air. 

“Yes!” George announced, glancing at John and Paul, looking for some sign of interest. 

“Show us sometime today, George,” Paul said, smiling widely. “Today is starting out to be so productive! I’m glad you’ve seen the light on the whole ‘songwriting in the ashram’ deal,” Paul joked.

“Well, I s’pose you can’t completely halt the creative process,” George admitted. “It’s hard to stay away from music when the lot of you are around fiddling about on those guitars all day long. As Ringo pointed out earlier, you never put those things down— especially you, Don.” The congregation erupted in a little bout of laughter at his joke. Donovan nodded, laughing along. “Anyways, the song is called ‘Not Guilty’, and I poured quite a bit of my feelings into it,” George admitted.

“Well, we’ll see if it has its spot on our new record,” John stated, nodding at George. 

After breakfast, the entire group filed down the road to the river. They would follow the river, single file, singing and making merry all the way into the town. Wide grins were painted on everyone’s faces as George and Pattie led the way. The girls giggled and the men hooted. Jane threw her hand back and Paul took it; in turn, Paul threw his hand back, and the man behind him, who happened to be Donovan, took it nervously. Donovan felt the electric shock of their touch. Paul turned and winked. 

John, who was behind Donovan, scowled secretly. Typical that this would happen again. Donovan sensed his animosity and turned his head toward John. He threw his hand back, taking John’s hand in his own. He offered a smile. John was stunned. He noticed how clammy Donovan’s hands were, how sweaty his palms were. John became aware of how much he intimidated the poor younger musician. He bit his tongue and smiled back at him. Shrugging, John threw his hand back at Cynthia and took her hand as well. And so, a long chain was formed.

The group hurried faster and faster, practically skipping together in joy. Paul chatted to whomever would listen. He oftentimes enjoyed taking walks with friends in parks and the like, discussing everything that came to his mind. He loved to converse. “You know I used to visit clubs and such back in Soho,” Paul began, speaking to both Jane and Donovan, “and there used to be this lovely man, Jimmy Scott the conga player, yes you know who I mean, Jane…” Paul nodded to Jane, continuing, “And he had a funny little saying, oh what was it… ‘Ob-la-di, Ob-la-da’! See, he would sing ‘Ob-la-di!’ and the crowd would come back at him with ‘Ob-la-da!’, and he would respond with, ‘Life goes on’. You know, that’s such an interesting saying to me. So carefree. You know it means something like ‘neither good, nor bad’, y’know getting better.” Paul laughed jovially at his joke. 

“Ob-la-di, ob-la-da, life goes on— bra! La, la, la, la life goes on,” Paul sang to a cute tune he had just invented. 

“I love that, Paul,” Jane cried.

Paul sang it again, and Donovan and Jane joined in.

“Christ,” John scoffed, “the three of you are a bunch of nutters.” However, before too long, Paul had the entire convoy singing his new tune at the top of their lungs. “Ob-la-di, Ob-la-da” echoed over the river and through the jungle, causing the monkeys to chatter and the birds to flap away in a panic as they plowed through the underbrush. _Paul is interested in some odd birds_ , John thought, cringing inwardly at the silly song Paul had written. 

By midday, they had finally reached the town. The women instantly broke apart from the group and dashed down the street by all of the brilliantly colored shops. Produce stands stood up and down every street, sellers calling to the Westerners at every turn, ready to up their prices for the occasion. Old women beckoned Jane, Pattie, Prudence, Mia, Cynthia and Jenny at every turn, pleading with the girls to consider some of the vibrant saris that they had in stock. They stared in awe at every single piece of fabric thrown their way. Jane was the only girl who took her time examining the thread work and condition of the material and each detail of the products. Pattie loaded up a basket of new clothing; she was a model, after all.

Mike Love, who was familiar with nearly every nook and cranny of the city, immediately snuck away from the group to do some dealings with the locals. He needed to gather supplies for his little bartering service back in the compound. He would wheel and deal several crucial, yet illegal items such as alcohol and cigarettes.

George dutifully followed Pattie as she delved into each shop to search for her next fashion decision. He was mostly there to carry her things.

Paul, Donovan, and John broke into their own threesome, exploring the town. They waved to the merchants who beckoned to them from each stall they passed. They finally approached a stall selling Indian musical instruments. The three marveled over the tanburas and sitars, laughing in their mutual passion for music. The stall owner laughed in joy as they gazed at the instruments in awe. Donovan attempted to barter with the merchant in broken Hindi and managed to persuade him to lower the price a bit. 

“This will be a beautiful instrument for my collection,” Donovan said happily, grasping his new sitar and turning toward the other two. 

“Yes, it will,” Paul agreed, putting hand on his shoulder as Donovan handed over the rupees. The merchant bowed his head to Donovan several times having made a healthy profit. The merchants at neighboring stalls looked over with jealousy at the large purchase. 

Finally, in the late afternoon, the group met up at a large sparkling fountain near the center of the town. The ladies were heavily laden with purchases of saris and other beautiful Indian fabrics and jewelry. George immediately hovered around Donovan and his new sitar. “I can teach you how to play that, you know!” George announced happily. 

“You learned from Ravi Shankar, right? You’ll be a fantastic teacher,” Donovan said, appreciating George’s offer. 

“Yes, he’s one of my dearest friends,” George answered. 

The group moved quickly down the path to the ashram. Though many of the extroverted members of the group enjoyed the momentary bustle of Rishikesh, returning to the undisturbed natural serenity of the quiet jungle was like a breath of fresh air to them all. Their journey to the ashram was as much full of song as the earlier trip, but instead of new music filling the underbrush, the group sang classics such as “When the Saints Go Marching In”. 

They arrived at the ashram just as the sun had begun to set, casting a familiar reddish glow across each bungalow. The Maharishi retreated into the lecture hall, and the entire group followed for the evening lecture. Donovan reflected on the day so far, realizing that a day all together was a perfect fix for some of the animosity that had been generated as of late. Donovan sat close to both Paul and John, learning to suppress his inner feelings for Paul and attempting to control his growing closeness to John. He flinched each time John would bump into his leg or each time their hands would accidentally brush each other. 

He and John both periodically glanced toward Paul who had Jane to his left. He held hands with her and occasionally would gently stroke her red locks out of her face, lovingly. John shifted nervously every time Paul would do some little gesture towards the girl. Jane paid little attention to Paul’s movements; she was quite mentally involved with the Maharishi’s words. 

The Maharishi wrapped up the lecture and motioned for the party to move outside. A fire had been lit in the fire pit outside and the chairs had been wiped clean. All of the guitars and sitars had been neatly placed by each chair. Paul, John, and Donovan rushed to the fire as if they were children on Christmas morning. 

“Let’s have a little fun then, shall we, lads?” John cried, taking a seat and motioning for the others to pick up their instruments. The musicians sat around the right half of the circle, and the ladies perched themselves along the left side. 

John began to play a slightly sharp, off-key mixture of chords that reminded Paul of some sort of circus number. Paul had been working on a song that he had called “Honey Pie”, so he chimed in with some lyrics the second the chord progression came along again. “Honey pieeeeee; honey pieeeeeee,” he sang in the most country-western accent he could muster. The girls, especially Jane, giggled at his silly song. This was all the lyrics Paul could come up with on the spot, so soon, John joined in.

Eventually every member of the group was clapping and singing as the bonfire raged in front of them and the surrounding area was enveloped in the pitch darkness of dusk. The silly, repetitive song carried on for nearly thirty minutes before the crowd tired of it. “What fucking garbage,” John laughed, setting his guitar down for a moment. “Good luck trying to get that on the next record.”

“No!” Pattie cried. “That was wonderful!” 

“Really? You’re daft,” John joked. 

“Maybe she likes it, Johnny,” George answered. “Could be an interesting piece.”

“You know what is garbage?” Jenny Boyd spoke up over her sister’s conversation. 

Donovan glanced over at Jenny, attempting to avoid making a snide remark. He felt Paul’s hand grasp his wrist, worriedly. He bit his tongue. “What?” he asked.

“This bracelet I bought in Rishikesh today.” She held up her hand and the bracelet dropped to the ground, broken. “It’s junk. It’s so cheap. I should have bought from the stall next to it, but the woman who sold it to me had a baby in her arms.”

“It’s ugly too,” John added, turning up his nose.

“You can’t even see it over there in the dark, you git!” Paul laughed. 

“I can sense it. Birds are always drawn to shiny things no matter what kind of junk it is.”

“Hey, now. That’s not fair,” Pattie protested.

“Anyroad, speaking of junk,” Paul interrupted to keep the conversation on a light note. “That calls for another song! I’ve been writing this one for the past couple nights. It has a convenient name, of course.” After the short introduction, Paul began to sing the opening lines for his song “Junk”. “Motor cars, handle bars… bicycles for two… broken hearted jubilee,” Paul began.

“I’m telling you, Paulie; all you sing about is boring people and boring things,” John began after Paul had finished, but seeing the expression of hurt creeping across Macca’s face, he changed his tone, “But it’s a catchy tune. Very… ‘cute’,” he ended. 

“Thanks, Johnny,” Paul answered. “I’ll try to write about more spectacular people. I just can’t dream up weird people like you can.” 

“Just a gift, I suppose,” John joked.

“If your head fills with any more hot air, you may lift off the ground, John,” George remarked. 

“Watch it Harrison, meditating like you and Pattie do, you’ll be flying magic carpets before you’re forty,” John replied. 

George erupted into laugher. “What a prediction!” 

For the remainder of the night, the group sang and joked and laughed. John, George, and Paul entertained the group with several Donovan songs including “Colours”, “Catch the Wind”, and “Sand and Foam”. Donovan was delighted that The Beatles themselves enjoyed his music to such an extent. Donovan answered with several Beatles songs that he enjoyed including “Yesterday”, “And I Love Her”, and “Norwegian Wood”. The girls pitched in harmonies wherever they felt.

As Donovan began to sing “Yesterday”, something changed inside of Paul that he couldn’t place. He gazed at the younger musician, fascinated by both his renditions of “Yesterday” and “And I Love Her”. The crackling fire painted reddish designs on the flawless skin of his face, and he wet his lips before every line. Paul genuinely appreciated the beauty of Donovan’s music and folk altogether. After all, they were great friends with Bob Dylan long before they met Donovan. Paul watched with desire as the man wrapped up two of his greatest songs.

Around midnight, the fire was reduced to mere embers, casting a faint glow over the group. John stood up first, sick to death of Paul’s incessant staring at Donovan. Paranoia overcame him once again, and the effects of his lack of LSD was affecting him more severely than usual. Insecurities returned with a vengeance. “I’m off to bed, kiddies,” John announced. 

“Having a kip then?” Paul asked.

“Yeah,” John answered shortly.

“You feeling all right?” Paul asked, concerned. 

“Yeah, just fine.” With that, John retired to his bungalow for another sleepless night of periodic shifting between meditation and songwriting. Alone. Cynthia seemed genuinely concerned, but she knew John would be furious with her if she bothered him.

The girls stood and picked up their belongings before heading inside Jenny’s bungalow. Pattie broke off from the women’s group and followed George inside to meditate for a few hours before both of them went to bed. Just Paul and Donovan were left. “I’d like to work a bit more on ‘Junk’,” Paul said nonchalantly.

“Would you like some help with it?” Donovan asked, hopefully.

Secretly delighted by the offer, Paul nodded. “Come ‘ed, lad,” Paul announced jovially, strutting to his bungalow, his guitar in tow. Paul could feel every inch of his body trembling after Donovan’s heartfelt performance around the fire. He and Donovan hardly had stepped through the door before Paul slammed it closed. He whirled around and within seconds his hands were grabbing a handful of the front of his sherwani and forcefully kissing the other musician.

Donovan gasped into the kiss in surprise and reacted with such enthusiasm that it did nothing by turn Paul on even more. Their teeth bumped once or twice during their sloppy and fervent kissing, but Paul didn’t care. He needed Donovan, and he needed Donovan _immediately_. 

Donovan’s head swam with a mixture of confusion and arousal at Paul’s sudden change of heart. His mind jumped back to the previous week when they had shared a short-lived kiss before John had stumbled upon them. But that was then. John was in no way going to ruin this moment a second time. Donovan wasted no time pulling Paul’s shirt over his head. 

Paul shoved Donovan forcibly onto the bed, and climbed on top of him. Straddling him for a moment, in a fit of passion, he pulled Donovan’s shirt over his head, and dropped down onto his elbows, pinning the man beneath him. Donovan wrapped his arms around the other man, attempting to roll over on top, but Paul was having none of it. Paul mindlessly ground his crotch up against Donovan’s left leg which was slightly propped, knee bent. Paul growled deep in his throat. 

He finally pushed himself roughly up off of Donovan and straddled him again. He looked at Donovan with such a sultry look, his eyelids drooping, and his mouth hung open slightly, his lips glistening in the lamplight. Donovan lay, stunned, looking at the sheer beauty of Paul McCartney that left him breathless. Paul leaned over and placed soft kisses from the crown of his head head all the way down to his toes, taking his sweet time, and pulling down Donovan’s trousers as he made his way down his skinny legs. Donovan gasped and panted each time Paul’s lips made contact with his skin. Finally, he slowly pulled down Donovan’s underwear, causing Donovan to recoil quickly as the air hit his private parts.

“Paulie, what are we _doing_?” He sat up abruptly. “Paul…”

“What’s wrong, love?” Paul asked as if what they were doing was a normal, every-day activity. 

Donovan’s mind spun once again with Paul’s referring to him as “love”. “You’re a fucking prick teaser, Paul,” Donovan began, sighing heavily. “Paul you know how I feel about this.”

“I don’t,” Paul answered.

“That night after what happened with Jenny? I can’t just _do_ these things. It has to have some shred of meaning. And John…”

“Don’t even get me started. John would clobber me if he found out,” Paul laughed.

“That’s the problem, Paul,” Donovan stated shakily as Paul attacked the sensitive skin on his neck, nibbling and sucking. “Paul, this isn’t real.”

“What’s not real about it, Don?” Paul asked.

“You’re with someone else— at least two other people,” Donovan stated hesitantly.

“Listen, John and I are mates, you know. John’s my best mate and that’s about all he can ever be. He was the one who came onto _me_. But there’s nothing in this world that would ever make me ‘an him official like. He is too terrified of being labeled a queer or some shit like that. He’s jealous of everyone who comes along, and he’s a damn hypocrite with all the women he’s been with. And Jane and me are down the banks. We’re nearly done for. Don, I just want someone around that really wants to be with me— someone that can really depend on me.”

Donovan was silent for a moment, taking in the gravity of Paul’s words. He understood how much Paul was in love with John, but he could certainly see how John’s image and ego would get in the way of anything concrete. What surprised him was the comment about Jane. The two were engaged, but Donovan supposed now that they were simply putting on an act. 

“We could keep it a secret,” Paul whispered into the nape of Donovan’s neck. “We could cover it up. I’ve been waiting all my life for someone like you to come along. I had hoped it would be a woman, but it’s you, Don.”

Donovan gave in and embraced Paul once again, running his fingers through his ebony hair before kissing him. He ran his fingers sensually up and down Macca’s bare back. Paul shivered and moved slowly down Donovan’s slim frame, back to where he was before the interruption. He took Donovan’s leg and kissed slowly up Donovan’s inner thigh. Donovan whined and bucked his hips involuntarily; Paul simply pinned him down with his free hand as he leaned in, kissing closer and closer. 

It was in that moment that Donovan received the sloppiest and best head he had ever experienced. He arched back as Macca bobbed between his legs. His mind was swimming and numb. He tugged at Paul’s hair, and made the _dirtiest_ noises Paul had ever heard in his life. He came quickly and violently. He tensed up and bit into Paul’s pillow, screaming at his climax. Paul gathered Donovan into his arms and kissed him while he sat up on cloud nine. 

“Paul…” was all Donovan could manage to say. He instinctively spit on his hand and went straight for Paul’s trousers. He proceeded to give Paul a hand job, gazing directly into the Beatle’s eyes. Paul bit his lip and leaned back against the wall next to the bed. Donovan moved toward him, planting hot kisses along his neck and collarbone. Paul shut his eyes and his lips parted with gruff moans escaping his mouth. He straddled Paul and silenced his moans with a kiss. “They’ll hear us, Paulie,” Donovan whispered into the kiss. “You’ve got to be quiet.”

Paul couldn’t help himself. He moaned through the kiss, and his hands roamed Donovan’s entire body, feeling and touching every inch of the other musician, taking in every crevice, each bump and mole bringing him closer and closer to his climax. He lasted significantly longer than Donovan due to his earlier-in-the-week tryst, but he finally came all over both of their stomachs. His orgasm pulsed through him, numbing his mind once more, and causing him to yelp into Donovan’s mouth.

Donovan, already exhausted from his own climax, lay down on Paul’s bed, and Paul curled up with his head on Donovan’s chest. “Are you sure you want me, Paul?” Donovan asked, worriedly.

Paul thought for a moment and answered, dreamily, “Yes, Don, I do.” Paul felt Donovan relax beneath him, and there they lay for several minutes before Paul felt Donovan’s breathing change as he drifted into a deep slumber. Paul listened to all of Donovan’s little sounds he made as he slept and felt comfortable and in awe of him. Other than John, he had never met another man that made him feel the way Donovan Leitch made him feel. He drifted to sleep, awaiting the Holi Festival the next day. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Longer update than usual, but I really got carried away on this one. If you see any grammatical errors, let me know and I'll fix them. Enjoy.


	8. Why Don't We Do It in the Road?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Donovan and Paul take some life advice from monkeys on the evening of the Holi Festival.

  
_"Why don't we do it in the road?_  
_Why don't we do it in the road?_  
_Why don't we do it in the road?_  
_Why don't we do it in the road?_  
_No one will be watching us_  
_Why don't we do it in the road?"_  


At breakfast the next morning, the group realized that none of them had been informed that a group of photographers would be allowed to enter the ashram for the Holi festival celebration. 

“What the fuck?” John shouted overtop of his cornflakes. George and Pattie stood up from the table and walked away after one of the workers for the ashram had revealed the untimely announcement. 

“We didn’t come here to be fucking photographed,” George swore under his breath. “You surely will not see a glimpse of me an’ Pattie today, then. Ta.” Pattie scowled as they made their way to their hiding place— their bungalow— for a full day of meditation. Donovan and Paul were both taken aback from the reactions.

“We’ve spent an entire month here without being disturbed, what’s a couple photographs? We’ve already had some taken. Ringo took some, for Christ’s sake.”

“It’s the principle of the thing!” John exclaimed. “We came here to gather ourselves, write songs, meditate, and get away from the hoards of screamin’ girls, I can’t handle it. This is our sanctuary, Paul. And I’ll be damned if I let some big-shot photographer get a snap of me today. Fucking bullshit.” John paced up and down the long table as he ranted, intimidating the monk who had come to relay the news. Donovan silently observed, taking Paul’s hand under the table. He had never seen John so angry.

“We were only supposed to have those photos taken at the beginning so we could get it out of the way, and now they’re back snoopin’,” John said plainly. “I won’t be here. Enjoy the Holi Festival without me.” With that, John walked away from the long table and followed Pattie and George back to his respective bungalow. 

Donovan, Paul, and the rest of the group were shocked at the triple outburst at the prospect of photographers. “I, for one, am excited,” Mike Love announced, pushing his bowl of cornflakes away from himself.

“Let’s get colorful, then, lads,” Paul said jokingly, shooting a concerning glance in the direction John had gone. They all stood up and headed out to the fire pit. The photographers were all lined up.

“Is this it?” One American photographer shouted at the group. “Where’s Lennon, Harrison, and Starr? We didn’t pay to photograph one-fourth of the Beatles.”

Paul cringed and approached them. He kept his voice low, “Look, this is all you’re gonna get. John and George have other things to do, and Rings left due to allergies. You can either take these photographs of us enjoying ourselves, or you start a row, and you can piss off. Pick one, yeah?” Paul scowled at the American, crossing his arms, and he bit his lip nervously.

Slightly offended, the three photographers shrugged and began snapping away as they began the fun ceremony. Paul took a deep breath and after a few seconds, exhaled, attempting to lighten his mood. A few workers of the ashram brought out red paint made from mixing a red powder and water and set it out in bowls around the fire pit. Before Paul knew it, he had five different people painting his face with the red goop.

Paul laughed in delight as Jane and Donovan slathered the paint all over Paul’s face. Paul reciprocated by joyfully, and gently, painting Jane’s face in return. He then tackled Donovan’s face, being a little more rough and occasionally having to chase him down again. He painted a little heart on the man’s cheek. Then, he and Mike Love painted each other’s face, laughing the entire time.Various other people taking the course, and attracted to the photographers, joined in with the famous group. By the end, they were all covered in the red paint. 

Soon enough, the photographers were asked to leave, and the group dispersed to sing or meditate. Donovan, Paul, Jane, and Mike sat down around the fire pit, exceedingly exhausted by the event. “You look like a real tomato,” Jane joked to Paul. Paul laughed slightly and nodded at her comment. “I’m completely beat. I could use a nap. I’ll see you later, Paul.” Jane pecked Paul on the lips and squeezed his hand before retreating into the mass of bungalows. Paul was unfazed by her departure. 

For approximately an hour, Donovan, Paul, and Mike sang various Beatles, Beach Boys, and Donovan songs, providing commentary for each style. “I need to visit you and work through a song I’ve started, Mike,” Paul remarked. “I think the Beach Boys’ style would really fit, and I’d like to borrow it, you know.”

“Yeah, feel free,” Mike exclaimed. “I can certainly help you out, Paulie.” He paused for a moment before speaking up again, “I’m going to go meditate. You lads have fun.”

“Ta,” Paul said, clearing his throat as he realized he and Donovan were alone again. Paul slid closer to Donovan, locking their fingers together and smiling brightly. Paul glanced around nervously for bystanders.

“Don’t get any ideas, Paulie; it’s broad daylight,” Donovan joked to no avail. Paul leaned over and gave Donovan a peck on the lips, just as Jane had done an hour earlier. 

“No one’s around,” Paul answered, burying his face into Donovan’s painted neck and planted a few hurried kisses. 

“Hah, stop,” Donovan pleaded, pushing Paul away gently. He squinted as he made a shockingly hilarious discovery, and attempted to change the subject. “Oi, get a load of that.” Donovan pointed toward the dirt road leading into the ashram.

Paul squinted also into the distance and discovered what Donovan was pointing toward. Two monkeys stood smack-dab in the middle of the road, copulating frantically. They were unfazed by the various people walking by them, glancing disgustedly at the two animals. They were blind to the world around them.

“That really is something,” Paul remarked, leaning back in his chair. 

“Something?” Donovan asked, chuckling silently.

“They’re really going at it, aren’t they?”

“Yes, they certainly don’t give a shit what’s going on around them.”

“It’s such a beautiful thing,” Paul said. “There aren’t any so-called stipulations to love making for animals. It’s a free thing. They just decide on the fly to have sex. One look and— “ Paul snapped his fingers, “They’re at it. Simple. Pure.”

“It’s so animalistic, though,” Donovan added. “So unbridled. There’s no formalities. No foreplay. Just straight, no-bullshit fucking.”

“‘Why don’t we do it in the road?’; ‘Yeah all right’. So fascinating,” Paul said.

“You should write a song about it,” Donovan suggested, jokingly.

“You know, it’s not a bad idea, Don.” Paul shifted slightly thinking about the subject matter of the conversation. Love-making was too formal in the human race. Even Donovan made it more than what it actually was. It didn’t make any difference to Paul whether or not he loved someone in order for him to have sex. He glanced at Donovan, turned on by the idea of fucking the younger man in the road like an unbridled animal. Donovan noticed his gaze, and returned it donning a questioning expression.

“What are you thinking?” Donovan asked. His expression shifted. “Don’t even think about it.”

“Why not?” Paul asked with a goofy grin. “We do over complicate it a bit.” Donovan was silent. Paul moved his thumb in tiny circles over the skin of Donovan’s hand as Donovan contemplated Paul’s words. “Come ‘ead, Don…” Paul whispered, standing and pulling Donovan toward him. 

“Where are we going?” Donovan asked hesitantly. 

“My place, where else?” Paul answered, offering a wry smile. 

“Paul…” Donovan protested, but he was secretly extremely aroused. 

Paul pulled Donovan into his bungalow, and again, wasted no time. “Now we’re alone… now you don’t have to worry…” Paul whispered, wrapping his arms around Donovan’s waist and pulling him close. Paul pressed his nose against Donovan’s and stared deeply into his eyes; Donovan’s breath quickened. Paul’s breath caught in his throat as he kissed Donovan as sweetly and delicately as he could muster. Their lips danced against each other as Donovan draped his arms over Paul’s shoulders. “Have you…” Paul continued, “… ever been with another man before?”

“We were together last night, Paulie,” Donovan whispered in return.

“No, I mean, all the way with another man…” Paul added. Donovan shook his head nervously, taken aback by Paul’s question. “Would you be open to it?”

“I think… I think so,” Donovan answered, gathering his all of his inner fortitude. 

“Would you fuck me, Don?” Paul asked finally.

Donovan felt an unbearable throb inside his pants with the filthy question. “Yeah,” was all Donovan could manage to say as Paul moved his hands to the front of Donovan’s pants, pressing up against his obvious erection. 

“Yeah?” Paul asked, pushing Donovan back toward his bed slowly. He kissed Donovan again, more forcefully, pulling his shirt over his head. He shoved his hand into his bedside table drawer, pulling out some Indian oil-based lubricant. “I picked this up in Rishikesh when I left you guys to check out some ‘spices’,” Paul admitted, winking at Donovan. Donovan gulped as Paul loomed over top of him. “If you want to fuck me, Don, you may want to gain a bit more control over me…”

Donovan trembled all over before he pulled his own shirt off and grabbed Paul by the wrist, yanking him toward him. “I’m not a rough lover, Paulie… I’m very gentle.”

“Change,” Paul challenged Donovan, looking the other man straight in the eyes with a fiery and lustful expression. Donovan bit his lip. He wrenched Paul onto the bed on his knees before moving in behind him and yanking down his pants, revealing Paul’s rather full bottom. Donovan leaned over Paul and took a handful of his ebony hair into his fist, tugging upward painfully. “Now you’ve got it,” Paul whispered. Donovan kissed down his spine, causing Paul to tremble and grasp his dick out of pure instinct.

“Oh no you don’t, darling,” Donovan growled, slapping Paul’s hand away. Paul chuckled painfully. Donovan pulled down his own pants, letting them pool around his knees before he grabbed the small bottle of lubricant. He put a healthy amount on his fingers and nervously approached Paul once again.

After a moment or two of hesitation, Paul spoke up, “Would you like me to fuck you instead?” Frightened, Donovan shook his head.

“No, no, I want to fuck you,” Donovan reassured himself. He slowly teased Paul’s entrance with two fingers before pushing his pointer finger inside, resulting in a sharp gasp from his partner. 

“Christ,” Paul gasped as Donovan pushed a second finger inside, making scissoring motions with his fingers, slowly and carefully stretching Paul’s tight entrance. Donovan’s mouth watered as he pushed his fingers in and out of the other musician.

“Are you ready for me, my darling,” Donovan whispered into the back of Paul’s head into his hair, taking the bottle again and slathering a generous amount of the slick liquid onto his dick. He pressed it against Paul’s entrance teasingly. 

“Yes please, Don… Fuck me please… Fuck me like those monkeys in the road,” Paul pleaded. Donovan hesitated no longer and slowly slid his entire length inside of Paul. Paul arched his back in pain and pleasure, and nearly drew blood from his bottom lip from biting down. 

“Are you okay, love?” Donovan asked, slightly concerned, and overwhelmed at the tightness. 

“Y-yes, keep going,” Paul whispered. Donovan moved in and out slowly, hitting Paul’s sweet spot. “Ah, Donovan,” Paul whined, throwing his head back as the skin-on-skin slapping became louder and louder. Paul’s hands found his own erection once again, and he began stroking himself instinctively. Again, Donovan slapped his hand away. “No, please, Donovan, touch me please,” Paul begged. 

“Don’t be a naughty, boy, Paulie, or I’ll have to punish you.” Paul moaned in a state of absolute lust, his need for release sky high. “You want me to touch you?…” Donovan whispered, grunting as he pushed in and out of Paul faster and faster. He panted and sweat trickled down his brow in the ninety degrees Indian afternoon. Donovan wrapped a hand around Macca, and slowly grasped his erection.

“Yes! Don!” Paul cried out.

“Shhh,” Donovan pleaded, shutting his eyes and beginning to stroke Paul’s manhood. He slammed into the older man, stroking faster and faster, their frantic pants and moans filling the air, making it hot and sticky inside the small bungalow. 

“K-keep going… I’m so close, Don, ah, I’m so close,” Paul moaned grasping the headboard for support, worried his arms would give out any moment. Paul exploded into Donovan’s hand, and all over his pillow, with a loud grunt. Donovan followed almost immediately after, frantically pulling out of Paul on instinct, and finishing all over his back. 

Paul let out a great sign and collapsed onto his stomach, his back slicked with sweat. Donovan toppled over onto his side and gazed at the ceiling in the aura of post love-making. “T-thank you, Don,” Paul gasped, glancing at him, his cheek buried in his pillow, before he realized the stickiness of it. “Gross,” Paul spat, throwing his pillow off the side of the bed.

Donovan erupted in a fit of laughter, staring at Paul with half-closed, loving eyes. “You’re beautiful when you get fucked, Paulie,” Donovan cooed. 

“You’re sexy when you fuck me, Don,” Paul answered, cuddling up to Donovan, and once again laying his head on the other man’s chest. “Ta,” Paul jested.

Donovan petted Paul’s hair, twirling the locks around his finger, lightly massaging Paul’s scalp. Paul shut his eyes and cuddled Donovan closer. “This is what I dream of every night,” Donovan whispered. 

“Is it?… Are you happy, Don?” Paul asked.

“Very…”

 

—

 

John braced himself on the side of Paul’s bungalow, the color leaving his face, his vision turing red. _“You’re sexy when you fuck me, Don.”_ The words repeated and repeated in John’s head. He couldn’t believe his ears. _What in the fucking hell does that mean?_   _What is that garbage?_ But Paul’s words couldn’t spell the situation out more plainly. 

John slid down the wall and hugged his knees to his chest. He tugged at his hair, the tears coming unannounced and they fell onto the dead leaves underneath him. His head spun with the lack of sleep, the lack of drugs, the lack of happiness. He had officially lost everything. And he knew it. John held his head, the tears rolling down his cheeks, the tap on full blast. It was over. 

He sat for another ten minutes, listening to the silence inside of Paul’s bungalow. They were asleep. He stared at his guitar laying in the dust. The heat was stifling, even in the evening. John wanted to run and hide. He wanted to die. But he knew he couldn’t. His mind raced through the years, to Paris, to the first time he and Paul made love. He thought back on all the now meaningless conversations about their future together. He thought back to all of the fights, to the time that he had taken scissors to a girl than Paul had been shagging’s wardrobe. He reviewed his history with Paul over and over again, unable to understand where he went wrong, where the history between them lost its meaning. He and Paul were soulmates. Weren’t they? He had never been more sure of anything in his life than he was about Paul McCartney. Now, John wasn’t sure of anything anymore. 

He pulled himself up to his feet and slowly stumbled back to his bungalow in a daze to meditate. He needed to find his own answers. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since I leave for Europe in six days from today, my updates will become probably more erratic. I have exams Monday and Tuesday, so I really need to focus on studying. But the next update will be up ASAP. Thanks for your patience. Hope you like the update.


	9. Hurdy Gurdy Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Paul and Donovan spend time with Mike Love and George Harrison writing songs. Paul and John clash.

_ "When the truth gets buried deep _   
_Beneath the thousand years asleep_   
_Time demands a turnaround_   
_And once again the truth is found"_

 

Paul had a particularly distinct skip in his step the morning after his lovemaking session with Donovan. He rounded the corner, and pushed right into Mike Love’s bungalow without knocking. “Mike!” Paul cried, glancing around the bungalow. It was empty. Paul took a seat on a chair inside, and surveyed the room.

The room was surprisingly empty; Paul knew Mike hoarded various paraphernalia that was illegal in the ashram. He had become known for providing various “supplies” throughout their stay. The entire group knew about it, but George and he had gotten into a pretty severe row over it before George was able to forgive and forget — and ignore. All that stood in the room was a small bedside table, top clear; a plain bed; and a chair. Even the floorboards were immaculate; most of the other bungalow floors were dusty and unswept. 

The door slammed open, and the bearded man stepped into the room. “Mike! My lovely love,” Paul called before Mike whirled around and noticed the strange man in his bungalow.

“Yeah just let yourself in, Paulie,” Mike said sarcastically.

“Sorry, Love, I need to celebrate; do you have any ciggies?”

“Do I have any ciggies…” Mike scoffed. “What are you celebrating?” Mike asked as he shoved his hands into the drawer of his bedside table.

“Well just how successful this trip has been for me, you know. Successful-like…” Paul rambled. 

Mike raised his eyebrows and handed over the package of cigarettes. “Mmmhmm…” 

Paul took them and handed Mike cash in return. Paul changed the subject, realizing he seriously needed to keep his love life under wraps. “So, remember that song I was talking to you about? I really dig the whole Beach Boys style, you know. And I have come up with a song paying some homage to Chuck Barry featuring some of your tricks; I plan on using some Beach Boys harmonies… Would you like to hear it?”

“Yeah, Paul, that would be groovy.” Mike passed Paul his own guitar, and Paul positioned himself to play in the rickety old chair. Paul began his new song with a fervor, strumming in an upbeat fashion.

“Flew in from Miami beach…” Paul began, belting out the words to his new composition: “Back in the U.S.S.R”. When he finished, he glanced over at Mike for his opinion. 

“Wow, Paul. I’ve never heard anything like it. You know people are bound to ask questions about the subject matter,” Mike pointed out. 

“Yeah, I’m well aware. But it doesn’t mean anything. It’s just a silly song I decided to write; kind of a play on “Back in the U.S.A. Do you like it or don’t you?”

“I love it, personally,” Mike said with a smile.

“Ta,” Paul grinned at the other man. Mike scratched his beard.

“Is that all you were lookin’ for, Paulie?” Mike asked, shoving his hands into his pockets and pacing around the room.

“Oh, yeah,” Paul answered, realizing his welcome had just run out. Mike must have been waiting for other customers. Paul pocketed the cigarette pack and headed out the door. He turned and waved at Mike who had just picked up his guitar to put it back on the shelf.

Paul wandered around the ashram for nearly twenty minutes searching for Donovan to no avail. Defeated, Paul sat down in one of the chairs around the fire pit to work on another one of his songs. He barely noticed that John was lurking near by.

“My heart it sings for your love; you know it always will. I will be with you forever, my love, you know I will…” Paul sang silently, strumming his guitar. 

“That’s pretty bad,” John’s deep voice came from behind Paul. “It’s pretty disgusting, if I’m being honest.”

“I don’t recall asking you about it,” Paul joked, barely looking up from his guitar. His heart raced; John didn’t know that the lyrics weren’t about him. 

“Cheeky git,” John spat sitting next to him. “Write that with anyone in mind?”

“Not really,” Paul lied. 

“You’re a liar. Who is it then? Me? Jane? _Someone else_?” John scowled at Paul, radiating his anger outward.

“You want to know the truth?” Paul answered, anger welling up inside of him.

“Yes, indeed I do.” John raised his eyebrows expectantly.

Paul’s heart continued to race, and he racked his brain for anyone else that the song could be about. His memories trailed back to a faithful day soon before the trip: a day with a certain beautiful, blonde photographer. “Linda,” he whispered, looking up at John fearfully.

“Linda?” John repeated, confused. “Linda who?”

“You know… that pretty photographer for a couple months ago. Blonde, really a looker? Fine bird…” Paul answered.

“What you writin’ about her for?” John asked, unsatisfied. 

“I don’t know… I kind of… fancy her, I guess,” Paul answered, not particularly lying at this point. 

“Hm…” John thought. “I still think you’re liar, Macca.” 

“Well that’s your problem, I suppose.” Paul answered shortly. 

John stormed off in the early stages of rage. He thought about the tender moment they had just last week, and it only made him angrier. 

 

____

 

Donovan had spent the morning after the lecture meditating in a state of utter bliss. He was so in love with Paul McCartney he didn’t know what to do with himself. After he became tired of meditating, he decided to go for a walk to work off some of the adrenaline rushing through his veins. As he paced around the bungalows, struggling to breathe in the thick, hot Indian air, he paused as he passed George and Pattie’s bungalow. From inside, he could hear the light strumming of a guitar and became intrigued. He knocked.

“Come in,” George’s voice called. Donovan stepped inside and realized that Pattie was absent. 

“I knew you couldn’t stay away from songwriting,” Donovan joked. 

George looked up and smiled at Donovan. “It’s difficult. But I can’t seem to get inspired today. Have you written anything recently?”

“I’ve been writing a song about the Maharishi. It’s in its final stages, but I feel as if there is a verse missing.”

“Let’s hear it then,” George said, passing Donovan the guitar. 

Donovan began strumming and humming along to the tune. “Thrown like a star in my vast sleep, I opened my eyes to take a peek to find that I was by the sea… gazing with tranquility; ’twas then when the Hurdy Gurdy Man came singing songs of love… then when the Hurdy Gurdy Man came singing songs… of love…” Donovan sang brightly, his voice echoing off of the stone walls of the bungalow. George raised his eyebrows, thoroughly impressed with the song and lyrics.

“You may have yourself a hit here, Don,” George said with a smile. “I like that better than most of the stuff John and Paul have written, being completely honest with you.”

Donovan blushed, taken aback by the compliment. “Really? What do you think it’s missing though? I think I either need another verse or a really good guitar solo in that middle bit there…” Donovan continued, lost in thought.

“I could contribute a verse to you, Don. If it’s all the same with you…” George offered. 

“That would be wonderful!” Donovan exclaimed, handing George back his guitar. He patiently waited with George as he wrote the verse on a crumpled piece of paper he found in his bedside table. George handed Donovan back the guitar and commanded him to play the song again.

When they reached the blank portion of the song, George began to sing:

“When the truth gets buried deep

Beneath the thousand years asleep

Time demands a turnaround

And once again the truth is found”

Donovan set his guitar down once again and marveled at the lyrics and their meaning. He thought back to one of the first lectures the Maharishi had given about how when you are taught Transcendental Meditation, it is not for the first time. Your consciousness has been dormant for hundreds of years before it is reawakened by a teacher of TM such as the Maharishi. Donovan found this verse to be extremely fitting in the scheme of the song. “I am floored, George,” Donovan gasped.

“Glad you like it, Don.”

“John and Paul should allow you to contribute lyrics to songs more often. You’re brilliant,” Donovan stated.

“Yeah… Don’t think that’s going to happen any time soon, Don.” George laughed bitterly. “Sometimes I wonder what my true role as a Beatle is. What does that mean for me? I’ve almost had my fill of it, to be honest.”

Donovan was silent for some time. George was sick of being a Beatle? Or was George sick of being in the Lennon/McCartney songwriting team’s shadow? Donovan was determined to spend more time with George writing songs with him— especially when they all flew back to London after this class was over. Donovan felt as if he had found his lyrical equal. However, he knew that this session with George was rare since George felt that his primary role in the ashram was to meditate and learn more about the Krishna consciousness. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short little update before things get really interesting.


	10. Happiness Runs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Paul McCartney has reached his final straw.

_ "Little human upon the sand _   
_From where I'm lying_   
_Here in your hand_   
_You to me are but a passing breeze"_

 

The next day, the group filed into the lecture hall awaiting the new installment of Maharishi Mahesh Yogi’s teachings. Donovan sat next to Paul, and John made a point to sit as far away from Paul as he could manage. Paul gazed confused at John, and John simply ignored him. Paul secretly placed his hand upon Donovan’s as they sat cross-legged on their pillows. Donovan smiled to himself. 

Cynthia sat next to John, and he promptly ignored her as well. John looked out the window of the lecture hall at a cloud. He felt his pocket and the letter that was hidden inside. He thought back to Yoko’s last letter that she had sent him. Their secret correspondence was all John had left. “ _When you see a cloud, think of me…_ ” Yoko had written. Large, fluffy clouds lazily moved across the sky outside. _That’s a bloody awful lot of Yokos…_ John thought, amused by the idea. He imagined dozens of Yokos flying across a room at him. He loved the strange avant-garde art that Yoko practically had been throwing at him for the past months. _It intrigued him_. He had been thinking of her daily while he stayed at the ashram. _Let Donovan have Paul…_ John thought, _I would rather be with my intellectual equal anyways._

The Maharishi entered the large room and sat upon his platform to begin speaking. He then began the most influential lecture he would ever give Donovan and The Beatles. They all sat, mouths agape, learning about the true unity between man and nature. Donovan’s mind whirred. _It is almost as if mountains are not mountains… they are human souls just as sentient as I am_. _Rivers are sentient, they breathe, they feel._ Donovan thought. _Happiness cycles through all of these sentient beings. If we let nature run its course, we will all be filled with happiness. If we harm nature, we break the chain to receiving happiness._

_You know, I’m a child of nature. Nature rules everything. We are one with it…_ John thought. _Just like Yoko is a cloud, I am a part of nature also._

Paul, being completely in sync with John’s psyche, also thought: _I am like mother nature’s son. There is no difference between me and a country boy and a willow tree and a cedar tree. We are different variances of the same objects._

Each Beatle and Donovan absorbed every word the Maharishi uttered that morning, fascinated with the very idea of the unity between man and nature. As they filed out into the bright, blazing morning sun, they were all in a daze. John, Paul, and Donovan walked slowly towards the bungalows, and each glanced at each other. Reading each other’s minds, John said, “I don’t know about you gits, but I _have_ to go write.”

“Yes, come ‘ead,” Paul answered, agreeing fully. They made their way to Paul’s bungalow for one final writing session together. John and Donovan stopped by their respective rooms to gather their guitars and they all sat in a triangle to write. When they realized that none of them wanted to help the others with their own music, they moved to opposite sides of the room to figure something out. 

Paul scribbled down some lyrics projecting himself as a poor young country boy— Mother Nature’s son. He scribbled down several examples of natural imagery involving daisies and fields of grass. Rather pleased with himself, he could not wait to show his creation to the other two.

John became wrapped up in the lyrics plaguing his brain. He imagined himself on a road to Rishikesh and imagined the nature all around him— the jungle, the monkeys, the sunshine. His imagine ran wild with this idea as he strummed away at his guitar. His song also involved becoming a child of nature, much like “Mother Nature’s Son”. He decided that “Child of Nature” would be a fitting song title for his creation. He smirked to himself. He was sure his song would make the album.

Donovan, on the other hand, wrote an entirely different type of tune with a different concept. Before he even wrote the lyrics, he composed the tune and couldn’t get the notion that this would become a “round song”. He thought back to his earlier revelations during the Maharishi’s lecture. He thought about the happiness resonating throughout all living beings and all inanimate objects— the happiness that flowed back to him. He felt the happiness flow through his guitar; he felt it run up his arms straight to his mind. He imagined the green aura of happiness exploding from his brain into the walls of the room and into his two friends as they sat writing their songs. He almost swore he saw John and Paul smile simultaneously, and Donovan was completely wowed by the experience. He quit writing and sat imagining the green aura running in a circular motion from John and Paul back to himself.

“Happiness runs in a circular motion… thought is like a little boat upon the sea… everybody is a part of everything anyway… you can have everything if you let yourself be…” Donovan sang, becoming louder and louder. Paul and John paused and gazed over at Donovan as he sang to them. Paul got the chills listening to his lover sing his song about happiness. Donovan’s smile at that moment was so contagious that even John began smiling as well. 

“That is spectacular…” Paul gasped. “I have never enjoyed one of your songs more, Don.”

John snapped out of his strange state of bliss and scowled. “It’s all right.”

Paul dismissed John with a wave of his hand and moved closer to Donovan. “I’ve finished mine as well.” 

“Well, let’s hear it, Paulie,” Donovan urged.

Paul began to play and sing, and the room was silent except for John’s restless shuffling and shifting of his guitar. “Born a poor young country boy… mother nature’s son…” Paul sang quietly, strumming along on his guitar. As Paul sang, Donovan imagined himself as the poor young country boy as well. He was floored at the innocent beauty of Paul’s melody and lyrics. 

Paul finished and Donovan also gasped and complimented his lover’s song. “It’s beautiful… You’re a true artist… a genius,” Donovan whispered. John gritted his teeth and glanced from Donovan, to Paul, and back to Donovan.

“Well, I guess it’s my turn then, lads,” John announced, using every ounce of his strength to remain calm. He began strumming his guitar as well, and at the beginning, both Donovan and Paul were impressed by John’s melody as well. However, when he began to sing, the lyrics did little to impress the other men. Paul recognized them immediately as the weakest lyrics of the three songs composed. Paul thought to himself how John could improve on the song— this was nothing new to the Lennon/McCartney songwriting team. They were always honest with each other about how to improve each other’s songwriting.

After John had finished, he looked at the other two expectantly. “It’s certainly a start, Johnny,” Paul began. John rolled his eyes and set his guitar on the floor rather roughly. This sudden movement surprised Paul. “If I can make a slight suggestion: I think it’s a beautiful melody, but perhaps guitar isn’t the best instrument for this chord progression. Perhaps you could transpose it to piano when we get back to the studio in London.”

“Well, Macca, do you want to know what I think?”

“Hm?”

“I think, honestly, and all that, that it’s my fucking song, don’t you agree?”

“Wot?” Paul asked, surprised.

“—It’s my fucking song, and I will do what I want with it. And I really didn’t ask for your fucking opinion.”

“John, he was only offering his opinion. He’s done it before hasn’t he?” Donovan said, attempting to mediate the situation.

“And you can shut the fuck up, you fucking queer,” John spat, raising his voice. “What in the bloody hell do you have to do with this partnership? You’re not a Beatle, I’m sorry to burst your little Bob Dylan copying bubble, Donny. Load of shite.”

Donovan’s mouth fell open and closed again in surprise. He stood up and walked out of the room.

“Don’t you talk to him like that!” Paul shouted at John. “What the hell has he done to you?!”

“What _hasn’t_ he done to you, Paulie? Oh Paulie, you and your queer self can piss off. What we have is over. Done. Finished. I hope you’re pleased, Paulie. ‘You’re sexy when you fuck me, Don’? What a crock of shit. You’re a fucking liar,” John shouted, his voice trembling in defeat. Before Paul could protest, John pushed the door open and trudged out into the afternoon sun. 

Paul stared after him, completely taken aback with the guilt slowly creeping over him. His lips trembled, and he held his head. Finally, rage and guilt reaching a peak, he slammed his fist into the wall of the bungalow, his knuckles cracking painfully against the brick. His adrenaline masked the pain, and he curled up in pain. _I have to get out of this place._ Paul thought. As soon as he was able to gather what was left of his sanity, he stuffed all of his belongings back into his suitcase. Lugging it through the door, he abandoned his empty bungalow.

Paul kicked up dust as he headed to the lecture hall and the adjacent room where the Maharishi lived and meditated. He knocked on the door and listened for the Maharishi’s soft voice calling him inside. “I have to leave this place; Jane and I have prior obligations in London, and I’m afraid I cannot complete the course.” The Maharishi seemed genuinely surprised at this strange announcement.

“I suppose it cannot be helped. Have you discovered what you had come to seek here?”

“I believe so. I have learned a lot, and I’d like to thank you from the bottom of my heart for this opportunity to discover myself,” Paul stated, partially lying to his guru.

“Very well. You are quite welcome, Paul. I hope you continue to discover the true power and helpful nature of meditation for the rest of your days.” With that, Paul shook the Maharishi’s hand and headed toward his next destination: Donovan’s bungalow.

He knocked softly. “Don?..” Paul called weakly.

“Who is it?” Donovan asked, his voice cracking.

“It’s me, Paul…” Paul answered before Donovan pushed the door open to let him inside. Paul immediately wrapped his arms around the trembling Donovan. Donovan buried his face into Paul’s chest, soaking the front of his shirt. “Hey, now. Don’t take what Johnny says too seriously, he’s always like that. He’ll go off and then he’ll go back to normal, you know. He does that. It doesn’t mean anything,” Paul lied. Paul had never seen John as hurt as he just was. 

“Paul, I didn’t mean to cause any of this.”

“You didn’t cause this, I did. I knew what the consequences would be. But I listened to my heart instead of my mind,” Paul stroked Donovan’s hair and kissed the top of his head. Donovan looked up and noticed Paul’s suitcase for the first time.

“Where are you going?” Donovan asked, frightened.

Paul gazed at Donovan guiltily. He debated lying to Donovan and decided that it would be the better route than seeming like a coward in front of his lover. “Jane has an obligation in London, so we have to return immediately.”

“That’s not fair, Paulie. You’re the only reason I’m happy here. You’re the only one that truly wants me here,” Donovan protested.

“That’s not true. All of us were happy that you came along,” Paul said, providing a reassuring smile. “Stay out the course, love.” Paul kissed Donovan on the lips, cupping his wet cheek in his hand. “You’ll do fine.”

Donovan frowned. “Very well, Paulie. I’ll stay.”

“I’ll be waiting for you in London. We can record more stuff together when you get back.”

Donovan nodded and watched Paul exit his bungalow. Paul hurriedly made his way down to Jane’s bungalow and let himself in. Jane whirled around from her mirror and stared at Paul in surprise. “What are you doing, Paul?” She asked.

“We’re leaving, Jane.” Paul announced. Jane stared at him, dumbfounded. 

“What?”

“I have to be back in London to get some stuff done. I feel as if I have learned all I’m going to learn here,” Paul said. Jane nodded slowly. She wasn’t going to argue; she didn’t exactly care about transcendental meditation in the first place, and it would be nice to get back to her acting career as soon as possible. She was already frustrated that she had to drop everything and travel here with Paul in the first place. She was already nervous that she wouldn’t land her next role. Without further question, she began to pack her bags as Paul watched.

She lifted her bag, took Paul’s hand, and he led her into the compound. The Maharishi had already called Rishikesh to arrange for a car to be driven to the ashram to pick the two up. The car pulled up, and Paul and Jane wasted no time piling into it. Paul turned to wave to the Maharishi as the car pulled away. He half expected to see John or Donovan waving back, but there was no one. John didn’t know. 

 

—-

 

John rocked back and forth, mind racing. He was officially miserable. All he wanted was Paul to love him again, to love him unconditionally. However, he also wanted Yoko to love him as well. He held his head as he realized how conflicting his emotions had become over the past few months. He was a hypocrite and he knew it. 

Finally, he tore through his bungalow, sprinted down the steps outside, and raced to Paul’s bungalow to apologize. He simply could not ruin relations between his soulmate and him. He pushed the door open without knocking, and the door struck the back wall with a hollow and echoing thud. The room was eerily empty. Paul’s belongings were gone. John rocked on his feet, confused.

He rushed down the steps of Paul’s bungalow and over to the lecture hall to speak with the Maharishi. He burst through the guru’s doors without knocking, interrupting the guru’s meditation session. “Where is he?” John demanded.

“Paul?” The Maharishi asked, surprised that John was unaware of his departure. “He went back to London,” the Maharishi answered simply. 

“London?” John shouted incredulously. “Whatever for?”

“He claimed that he and Jane had some prior obligations to fulfill and that he had discovered all he needed to discover during this course.” 

“Bloody hell…” John muttered under his breath. “All right…” John sighed. “Thanks.” He exited the room and wearily stumbled out of the lecture hall in despair. _How could Paul leave me before I could even apologize?_ … John thought sadly. Perhaps this really was the end. He stumbled over to Mike Love’s bungalow with only one thing on his mind: drowning the pain. 

“Hey, Love!” John shouted through the door and pounding on it roughly.

“What?” Mike shouted back, opening the door. “Do you need somethin’?” he asked upon seeing John.

“You got any booze?” John asked pitifully.


	11. Don't Pass Me By

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John goes to Donovan's bungalow for revenge, and he gets that and even more.

_ "Don't pass me by, don't make me cry, don't make me blue _  
_Cause you know darling I love only you_  
_You'll never know it hurt me so_  
_How I hate to see you go_  
_Don't pass me by, don't make me cry, don't make me blue"_

 

John braced himself on the side of a bungalow after he had downed exorbitant amounts of liquor. He bit his lip as the entire compound spun in front of his eyes. His lungs felt constricted as he felt as if his whole world was crumbling around him. He had drunk with Mike Love for a good several hours, and it was well after sunset. John stumbled toward one bungalow in particular— and it wasn’t his own.

John wanted to numb the pain, but he also wanted to know first and foremost: What did Paul see in that young folk singer with an underbite and an obsession with their fame? He slammed his fist into Donovan’s bungalow door, ready to cripple the younger man as soon as he laid eyes on him. 

Donovan jerked up from a light slumber. He had gone to bed only an hour earlier, and was surprised to hear a knock at his door. He wondered who it could be… Jenny? _Probably not_ , he thought. He opened the door to a very disheveled and red-cheeked John Lennon.

John readied himself for a brawl, but the instant he saw Donovan’s weak and soft face of surprise, he internally panicked before the levee broke. John collapsed onto the steps, a teary mess. His body shook with sobs. “Johnny!” Donovan cried, pulling the other musician into his bungalow and setting him on his bed. Donovan could smell the pungent stench of liquor on the other man’s breath and recoiled slightly. “What is the matter? Are you all right?”

“I’m…” John sputtered, trying to control his words, “I’m so sorry, Don, I’m so sorry,” He repeated over and over. “I can’t do anything right, can I?” He wailed.

“Shh, shh,” Donovan pleaded, holding John’s arm to keep him upright. “It’s all right, no hard feelings; I just wanted you to like me is all.”

“He left,” John cried, burying his face into the crook of the other man’s neck, utterly helpless.

“He did,” Donovan stated, hurt by the empty words as well. He petted the back of John’s head in the most comforting way he could manage. John clung to Donovan, pulling him closer and closer. Donovan eventually picked him up and practically carried him to the shower.

Donovan removed John’s clothes and put him in a very cold and unpleasant shower. John was so black-out drunk that he did not even complain, he merely shivered in the frigid cascade of water. After a while Donovan pulled John out, wrapped him a towel, laid him down, and sprinted down to Mike Love’s bungalow for help. 

“You’re a right git, Love,” Donovan scolded loudly as he opened the door. He shoved the other drunken man aside and hit his private stash. “Where is the food you smuggled in from Rishikesh the other day? Do you have any bread left?” Donovan demanded. Mike Love stood dumbly in the corner of the bungalow with a half-smile on his face, barely understanding Donovan’s words. He nodded slowly and pointed vaguely in the direction of his stash.

Donovan found a nice loaf of bread and was satisfied. He grabbed a cup off of the bedside table in Mike’s bungalow and stormed outside to a spigot near his own bungalow, filling it to the top. He returned to a still mildly drunk John in his bed. John had his eyes closed and Donovan hoped he wasn’t passed out, but the moment he got close, John shot his eyes open and began spouting gibberish to him. 

Donovan sat him upright and fed him water and bread. He then sat with John while he continued to cry pitifully as he began to slowly sober up. After a few hours, John was woozy and hungover, but he was conversing normally.

John gazed at Donovan, the anger from earlier in the day returning. He knew that Donovan had just helped him out of the kindness of his heart, but _damn him_. The more Donovan spoke to him, the angrier he got. The angrier he got, the shorter he became with Donovan. His eyes narrowed; he was going to finish what he had come to do in the first place, he knew it.

“How are you feeling, Johnny?” Donovan asked. “Do I need to get you more water.”

“Oh shut it,” John spat, standing up. “I’m not going to let you get off scot free just because you helped me one time; no, no, no, Donny, that would just be too easy.” John stood up from the bed, waving a bit on his feet, but he regained his stance.

Donovan stared at John in surprise. “What are you talking about?” Donovan couldn’t get the sentence out before John decked Donovan right in the jaw. Donovan toppled backwards, surprised, and before he knew what he was doing, he returned the blow onto the still-drunk John.

“That’s more like it!” John shouted, dealing blow after blow. Donovan dodged and turned the chair over in front of John to deter him. He shoved John backward, and John stumbled, but came back every time with more and more force, his blind rage building inside of him.

John and Donovan tackled each other and wrestled each other to the ground, punching and kicking. Donovan bit John’s hand as hard as he could, and the blood spurted into his mouth. John’s adrenaline was so high that he didn’t even feel it, he just kept kicking. Both men paused to get a breath in and survey the damage they had done.

John had Donovan pinned to the ground now, Donovan was on his back like a wounded animal, vicious and ready to attack if John dealt another blow. John gazed into his eyes and both men held their breaths. It was then John had the urge to do something different— something not exactly orthodox to typical bar style brawls. John slammed his mouth into Donovan’s and pinned him more tightly to the floor.

Donovan groaned into the surprise kiss and tried desperately to push John off of him. John stopped the kiss for a moment to allow Donovan to speak. “What the fuck are you doing?” Donovan nearly shouted, terrified and confused.

“I want to know exactly what Macca sees in you!” John announced. Donovan thought back to the moments he and Paul had shared and was almost ashamed. But then, he thought back to the almost tender friendly moments that he had shared with John, writing songs, and thinking that he possibly was developing feelings for John as well. And in that moment, despite the bruising across his whole body from being pummeled by John, he was slightly… aroused.

John dove back in for another kiss and Donovan responded this time, eagerly. John paused again, “No wonder Paulie likes you, you’re just his type,” John scoffed. “A whore.” He grabbed a fistful of Donovan’s curly brown hair and attacked him again, kissing him full on the mouth, sliding his tongue in and out of Donovan’s parted lips. John ground his crotch into Donovan’s leg, and Donovan moaned when he felt the hardness within. “I fancy a whore now and again too,” John whispered into Donovan’s ear as John kissed Donovan’s neck.

Donovan arched back and pulled at John’s already torn clothing. John pulled his shirt off and resumed kissing the other musician’s neck, sucking violently. “Whores like everyone to know they’re whores,” John snarled. Donovan raked his nails down John’s bear back, and John gritted his teeth and bit down on Donovan’s shoulder… hard. Donovan moaned and bucked his hips upward onto John’s leg.

“I’m going to fuck you, Don,” John announced, sitting up on his knees with Donovan still pinned to the ground. “And you’re going to see how I’ve fucked Paulie all these years. Give you a little _inspiration_.” Donovan gazed upward pleadingly as John dropped his pants, revealing his erection standing at attention. John grabbed a fist full of Donovan’s hair once again and stood.

He pulled Donovan’s head up to his waiting dick and practically forced it into Donovan’s mouth. He felt Donovan gag slightly and smirked, beginning to move in and out of Donovan’s mouth. His mouth fell open as Donovan’s light complains and moans vibrated agains his dick. Donovan frantically dropped his own pants and moved to his own erection and he began to stroke himself. His eyes watered, and he gagged several times, making it harder and harder to pleasure himself.

John soon noticed Donovan’s arm moving rhythmically out of sight, and he became angry, pulling out of Donovan’s mouth in an instant. He slapped Donovan roughly and shoved him back onto the floor on his back. “Don’t fucking do that,” John snarled, twisting Donovan’s wrist backwards so painfully that Donovan cried out.

“Please, John…” Donovan pleaded to no avail. John wasted no time in flipping the other musician over. 

“Don’t move or we’re going to have some trouble,” John disturbingly remarked, moving to Donovan’s bedside table. “I know you have some stuff in here for Paul; usually whores do.” John wasn’t at all surprised when he found a small bottle of lube hiding in the drawer. “Souvenir from your last rendezvous with my partner, yeah?”

Donovan said nothing as John approached him from behind. He was a mixture of mortified and aroused as John pressed a slick finger into his entrance. He bit his lip feeling the strange new experience. He felt filthy all of a sudden. John pumped his finger in and out of Donovan’s hole, adding more and more fingers until he felt as if Donovan was sufficiently stretched. Without warning, John pushed his length inside of Donovan.

Donovan cried out and tears stung his eyes. “J-john!” He cried, nearly bolting away from the other man. John pinned him down and began moving, hitting the sweet spot that he knew was there. Donovan’s pain turned to intense pleasure, and he ceased trying to escape.

“O-oh god,” Donovan’s voice caught in his throat as his hand moved to his dick, stroking frantically. John slapped Donovan’s hand away and slammed into him roughly. “J-john, please,” Donovan pleaded again. He needed release.

“No, whores do as they’re told. You won’t be getting a cent off me otherwise.” Donovan didn’t argue, his dick throbbed and ached as John continued to hit his prostate over and over again. Donovan squeezed his eyes shut and let out a series of hideous moans.

“Touch me, please!” he cried out. John pulled out of Donovan abruptly and swiftly shoved Donovan back onto the floor. John barely had any time before he came violently all over Donovan’s face. Donovan lay back in exhaustion, and John suddenly felt bad for the poor man.

John took ahold of Donovan’s erection and began to pleasure him frantically, Donovan squeezing his eyes shut, his face shiny with the result of John’s orgasm. Donovan let out a guttural moan as he came into the palm of John’s hand, and all over John’s chest and stomach. He lay there for a few moments, gasping for breath, a total wreck of a man.

John pulled on his clothes and stormed out the door. He thought back to the other time he had nearly gotten into an altercation with one of Paul’s ‘conquests’. That bird certainly never came around again. He held his head as he made his way to his bungalow. His job was done. 

Donovan lay on the floor of his bungalow, utterly stunned at what had just occurred. If he had thought for a moment that Jenny had taken advantage of his kind heart and affections, he had been horribly mistaken. Donovan had never felt so filthy and used in his entire life. A wave of nauseousness crashed over him, and he shakily stood up to gather his emotions. Before he could even think of about anything else, he began to pack his bags. He was leaving Rishikesh. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It is my tenth day in Europe today, and I apologize that my updates have been infrequent. I don't know when my next update will be, but this isn't over yet.


	12. I'm So Tired

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John reaches the end of his rope in Rishikesh.

_"I'm so tired I don't know what to do_  
 _I'm so tired my mind is set on you_  
 _I wonder should I call you but I know what you would do_  
  
_You'd say I'm putting you on_  
 _But it's no joke, it's doing me harm_  
 _You know I can't sleep, I can't stop my brain_  
 _You know it's three weeks, I'm going insane_  
 _You know I'd give you everything I've got_  
 _For a little peace of mind"_

John glanced down the breakfast table into the silence between the group. Paul, Jane, and Donovan had all left and now it was just George, Pattie, Jenny, Mike, Mia, and Prudence dining with them. George and John both felt a sort of emptiness without Paul and Ringo, but they also felt slightly betrayed that they couldn’t stay the course and appreciate something that the two of them cared so much about. 

Since their departure, however, John had become even more serious about his meditation. Because of the mixture between his avid and constant meditation and mind-numbing guilt, he also had stopped sleeping. Dark circles crept under his eyes and he became too queasy to stomach his breakfast. He started each morning with only a cup of coffee to avoid headaches. 

John spent copious amount of time with the Maharishi these days, hoping to learn everything he could from the wise guru. John asked many intellectual— and also stupid— questions to the Maharishi, and was both puzzled and confused by each answer that was given to him. He even offered to fund many of the Maharishi’s projects using Beatles money, and the Maharishi hired an accountant to make it happen. John was fully invested in spreading the Maharishi’s teaching throughout the world. 

John excused himself from the table receiving virtually no recognition from anyone at the table— not even Cynthia who was extremely sad at Jane’s departure from the ashram. John made his way back to his bungalow to seek refuge in a songwriting session. He had not touched a guitar since Paul and Donovan’s departure because writing songs in such a state seemed like a sin to him. Finally, he picked up his guitar, and he was home. His inspiration was his unbelievable exhaustion. He began to play.

“I’m so tired… I haven’t slept a wink,” he began, writing one of the most sleepy songs he had ever composed. Into this song, he poured in his feelings about meditating for three weeks straight and the fact that he knew if he told everyone of his problems, they would say that this way of life was harmful to him. However, he still desired to know the truth, and he openly believed that the Maharishi had the answers. 

When he finished an early draft of the song, he was enveloped in a brooding silence, his mind drifting overseas to the one woman that he knew was his true equal: Yoko. All at once, the entire world seemed cruel. He didn’t want to lie to everyone anymore; he didn’t want to lie to himself anymore. He realized in that moment that he didn’t need Paul’s affections to be happy, he didn’t need to be trapped in a marriage in which he wasn’t happy, and he certainly didn’t have to keep himself from a woman with which he was truly in love. By the time he finished thinking in his Bungalow, it was lunch.

He headed back out to the dining table and found the same scene he had left earlier that morning. John had not been seated for more than a minute before a man hurried up to their dining area. Much to everyone’s surprise it was none other than Magic Alex. Magic Alex was the head of Apple Electronics for The Beatles, and he had become heavily concerned about the influence of the Maharishi on the four lads. 

Alex showed up out of the blue, making his way directly into the breakfast room after Nancy pointed its direction out to him. “Good morning, boys!” Alex cried, expecting to see all four of The Beatles chowing down and chatting. He was taken aback to only see George and John. “Where’s Paul and Ringo?” He asked,

“I figured you’d already seen them,” George stated simply. “It became too much for them,” George said filled with disdain.

Up John leapt from the table, hugging his friend tightly. “Magic Alex is here! We’re saved! My other guru…” 

“Your other guru?” Alex questioned. “I am _the_ guru. I’ve come to see how you lot are doing. Apparently half as well as I’d hoped.”

“Clever, clever,” George answered.

“Let me introduce you to the Maharishi!” John said, throwing his arm around Alex’s shoulders. Alex was instantly concerned about John’s appearance. John seemed too thin and his whole body trembled with exhaustion. Alex instantly had a huge problem with the Maharishi if he could allow John Lennon to look this malnourished and broken. 

“How’s life, Alex. How’s Apple?”

“Everything is decent. We’re trying to piece everything together, but it’s a slow process,” Alex stated. “But boy do I have some inventions for you.” 

“Oooh goody,” John almost squealed like a young boy. 

John walked directly up the steps of the Maharishi’s bungalow and threw the door open. He led Alex to the Maharishi’s meditation cave where he was doing just that. He looked up contentedly at John, and noticed the new visitor with surprise. “Who is this?” he asked dreamily.

“Maharishi, this is our friend Alex Madras; we call him Magic Alex.”

“It’s a pleasure. Are you simply visiting your friends?”

“Yes,” Alex answered dismissively. “Haven’t we met before?” He asked disdainfully, eyeing the guru up and down. Soon a man in a suit showed up in the room without knocking. John hardly flinched as the man approached the Maharishi and whispered something into his ear. The Maharishi nodded, and the man swiftly exited, leaving Magic Alex confused. “Who was that?”

“My accountant,” The Maharishi answered.

Magic Alex raised his eyebrows inquisitively. “Is that so? John, may I speak to you in your bungalow?”  
John seemed surprised at Alex’s eagerness to escape the Maharishi’s chambers. He moved quickly to herd Alex out of the room and down the path to his bungalow. “What’s that all about?” John asked, scowling.

“Why does he have his accountant around here?”

“Well, if you must know, the other lads and I are planning on donating some of The Beatles’ funds to him to promoted meditation to those in need.”

“Are you out of your bloody mind?” Alex asked urgently, pulling John to the side. “Can’t you see that this seems a lot like a scam?”

“Well, it’s our money innit?” John asked a matter-of-factly. This silenced Alex for the moment, he shrugged, and he headed toward the guest bungalow in a huff in the direction that John had pointed. On the way to his bungalow, he ran directly into Mia Farrow who seemed to be in no hurry at all.

“Excuse me, can I ask you a few questions?” he asked. He wanted more information about this so called guru than John was giving him. 

“Of course,” Mia answered. “And you are?…”

“Alex Madras,” he stuck out his hand, “head of Apple electronics. I’m in The Beatles’ crowd. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Farrow.” 

“What would you like to know?”

For about an hour, Alex pried copious amounts of dirt on the Maharishi out of the gullible Mia Farrow. She revealed that she was fascinated by the Maharishi’s teachings, but she was also wary of him since an incident where the Maharishi had stroked her hair after mediation. “Prudence says that it’s a great honor for a holy man to touch his student after mediation,” Mia added quickly. “So I didn’t think that much of it, after all.”

Alex nodded his head, deep in thought. This seemed to be just the dirt he needed to loosen the Maharishi’s grip on John. Within a few hours, the cunning young man had spread the rumor that the Maharishi had made sexual advances on Mia Farrow throughout the entire ashram. The rumor reached George’s ears first through Pattie, and soon after, John also became aware of the rumor.

It was as if the final aspect of John’s life that made sense had shattered around him. The Maharishi had seemed the pinnacle of holiness and answers to his life’s great questions: John’s last way out. With the troubled life he had lived, he was thankful for the relief that meditation had given him, but seeing the Maharishi in a significantly more human light disturbed him and complicated his situation even more. His marriage to Cynthia and his relationship with Paul were failing, his band was failing, his mental health was failing, and now his one escape route had collapsed with one rumor.

John banged on the door of George’s bungalow and entered without a word. George glanced up at him, clearly just as disturbed as John was. John was certainly curious of George’s opinions of the situation because he knew George was more heavily involved that he was. George shook his head. “What do we do?”

John scowled. “I was about to ask you the same question, George.”

All night, the two deliberated in the close quarters of George’s bungalow. Within no time, they had decided to leave the ashram just as Ringo and Paul had done almost a month earlier. Pattie, Cynthia, and George voted that John go and speak to the Maharishi. George couldn’t bare to face him. 

John crept up to the Maharishi’s door, hesitated, eyeing the bronze doorknob for a few moments before turning the knob with trembling fingers. The Maharishi was in his usual place, and he smiled warmly at John. “We’re leaving,” John announced abruptly and forcefully. It was the period at the end of their time at the ashram.

The Maharishi looked completely taken aback. “Why?” He pursed his lips and waited for an answer.

“Well if you’re so cosmic, you’ll figure it out,” John spat before whirling around and exiting the room. Patty, Cynthia, George, and John were already packed and Alex Madras had already arranged for cars to pick them up. Pattie and George had decided to meet Ravi Shankar in another part of India; neither of them were ready to leave India just yet. John and Cynthia arranged to be taken to the airport to return to London immediately.

As the two remaining Beatles exited the gate to the ashram, the Maharishi stood, rather defeated, at the entrance, pleading with them to talk to him and to tell him why they were leaving. 

John threw their luggage into the back and pushed Cynthia into the back seat of the car before himself. “Watch it, John.” Cynthia warned. John ignored her and jumped in next to her. Alex was in the front seat next to the driver.

“It’s a good thing you lads left; he may have released some black magic on you if you had stayed,” Alex remarked. John hoped he was joking, but sure enough, half a mile up the road, the engine stalled and the four were stuck in the middle of a jungle road.

John was nearly in a panic helping the driver try to get the car started. The car eventually started, but stalled another few times before they got to the airport. Hours later, when the aerial view of London appeared beneath their private plane, John had never been so relieved and so exhausted in his entire life. The first thing he thought of as the plane touched the ground was when he would be able to see Yoko again.

By the time John and Cynthia arrived in their apartment, John had enough of her constant chattering. He slammed his fist on the coffee table in their comfortable living room and announced suddenly to her, “Cynthia, I’ve been unfaithful to you.”

Cynthia paused for a moment, taken aback by the revelation. “You what?”

“I’m going to tell you just how fucking unfaithful I’ve been to you. Is that all right?”

“John, what are you talking about?” Cynthia asked in horror.

“I’m talking about fucking every female fan on tour; that’s what I’m talking about, Cyn. Are you too fucking stupid to figure that out?”

“John, I don’t want to hear this,” Cynthia cried out.

“No, I’m going to list them for you.” John listened each country, each name he could remember, each detailed story of every conquest he could remember during The Beatles’ touring days. “I’ve fucked my way around the globe, Cyn.”

Cynthia was a wreck by the end of the list. She was bawling, begging John over and over to stop telling her these horrible stories. “Oh, but Cyn, I’ve saved the best for last. You’ll get a kick out of this one. It’s someone you know.”

“Don’t tell me, John, please don’t say it.” Cynthia had a feeling she knew what name would be thrown out next. 

“You ready?”

  
“Please, John!”

“The one and only, the king of arses himself, Paul fucking McCartney. That’s right, Cyn. I’m a fucking queer. I’ve been fucking my best friend for almost a decade. I’ve sucked him off in every location imaginable. I’ve fucked him in every hotel we’ve stayed in. And you know what, I’ve loved him more than I ever could have loved you…” John choked with his final words in the sentence, tears beginning to roll down his own face. His cheeks were red from screaming at her. “And because of this shite I’ve gotten myself into, there’s another name to that queer list. You can probably guess. Our very own Bob Dylan clone himself, Donovan Leitch.” With that, John left the room, slamming the door viciously behind himself. 

Cynthia sat in the middle of the living room floor, her face swollen and her eyes bloodshot. She buried her face in her hands, sobbing inconsolably. She didn’t know what to do. She was sure her marriage was over, but she never imagined that John had been unfaithful to her in so many colorful ways. 


	13. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 40 years later...

It was October 9th. Donovan passed a thumb over a torn and yellowed picture of a familiar scene. The Indian jungle was still a brilliant green though the whites of the photograph had surely faded. In the photograph, he, John, and Paul stood smiling with their guitars, working diligently on what surely was “Rocky Raccoon”. 

A man entered the room opposite Donovan, and he glanced up from the photograph. “You’re on in five, Grandad.” The young man said. 

“Thank you, Sebastian,” Donovan replied, pushing his slightly graying hair out of his face. He picked up his old guitar and hurried out of the dressing room. Stepping onto stage was familiar and routine in this middle of this tour. 

Halfway through his set, he sat crosslegged on his mat, and he looked out over the audience, misty eyed. “This is a song I’ve never performed live,” He announced with a chorus of applause thrown back at his words. He at once remembered the rejection Paul had offered him after their return from India so many years ago, how he returned to his true love. His mind thought back to a flashing news report over three decades ago. He remembered the shattering sound of his heart as his coffee mug dropped to the ground and he fell to his knees. He remembered his embrace with Paul several weeks after, the despair in his former lover's eyes. “This is a song for John,” he announced to more clapping.

“You're my singer

Lemme be your song

Celestial bodies

They get along

And I just want to sing along

 

You're my single

Lemme be your chart

If you never make the hit parade

You're number one in my heart

As long as I can play a part

 

Vegetarian by choice

Not by fashion

It's not so much what you eat

As what you balance on

And watch me balance on

 

Instrumental passage here

We're playin' it now

But you are not among us here

To play like you know how

Beg us to allow

 

You're my singer

Lemme be your song

No matter what you want to do

Let me pick along

I just want to sing along

 

Country ladies

Take us by the hand

Soft eyed and cotton clothed

Through Parrish meadowland

And John and I can be the band”

 

As Donovan glanced into the audience, he could have sworn he saw the smiling face of John Lennon himself within the shadowy faces. But it disappeared a moment later, leaving Donovan feeling empty. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for sticking to this work! This is the final installment. I'd like to say that though a lot of work was done in the research of this fic, it is completely fictional and I do not own any song lyric posted here. I do not know when I'll have my next big fic idea, but I'll write a few smaller ones in the meantime. Thanks again, peace and love.


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